She glanced up to find him staring at her, and she realized she’d said too much, that the wine and the stress of the night had messed with her normal guards. She was being overly chatty and philosophical. God help them both.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Sorry. Ignore me. Tonight has put me in a weird mood, and I talk too much when I drink.”
“Don’t apologize, and I don’t think that makes you boring, just focused. Plus, figuring out where to start may be the fun part. You could try different things and see what clicks. Take a class on something or volunteer somewhere. I could show you how to cook. I’ve heard I’m a pretty good teacher of egg frying.”
A choked laugh escaped her. “You do not want to take on that train wreck. I once set my dad’s kitchen on fire making popcorn.”
He grinned. “Oh, but I love a hopeless case. I have a student who couldn’t make toast when we started this year. This past week, she made crepes that I could’ve served in a white-tablecloth restaurant. I have faith.”
Rebecca bit her lip, realizing that maybe he was being serious, that he wanted to see her again and teach her to cook. Images of that flitted through her head. Wes next to her, sleeves rolled up, his hands on her, guiding her through the steps, feeding her bites of food. And…
What. The. Hell.
She needed to end this conversation before it went off the rails along with her good sense. She’d let herself forget she wasn’t supposed to be talking about herself or enjoying his company too much. She could not see Wesley after tonight. Could. Not. “I don’t think I have a hidden passion to cook.”
“Fair enough,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “But there’s something in there. You don’t strike me as a woman without passion.”
Her belly dipped, and she tried to ignore the shimmer of awareness that went through her at the way he was looking at her, like he was seeing right through her unaffected facade and reading her thoughts. “How do you figure?”
“You were passionate about saving that dog tonight, and you have stacks of books by your couch, which I’m guessing are about topics you’re into. And when you first tasted Dev’s food tonight, you got this look on your face like it’d taken you to another place. Not everyone savors food like that. Believe me,” he said softly. “That’s like chef crack. It makes us want to feed you all the things.”
She’d just taken another bite of the chicken, and she became hyperaware of the way he was watching her lick the remnants of sauce off her lips. All the things. What would he feed her? Would he taste as spicy as the chicken? She forced the bite down. “Eating for a hobby would be dangerous.”
“Also”—he gave her a serious look—“you wear blue lace underwear, which I’m thinking isn’t worn by passionless women. I mean, if they were green or that weird nylon material, then all hope would’ve been lost. But blue. Blue is the color of the sky and the ocean. It means hidden depths and endless possibilities.”
“We were supposed to forget you saw that.”
He lifted his palms. “We’re talking about hypothetical blue underwear, of course.”
She arched a brow. “You normally talk to strangers about their hypothetical underwear?”
“Don’t you?” His smile was playful. “You can learn a lot about a person that way.”
“Oh really? What do yours say about you?” The question was out before she could stop herself.
“Hmm.” He peeked down and apparently reached for the waistband of his jeans to check. “That I’m irresponsible because I forgot to do laundry again and had to go without.”
Her gaze automatically slid down, even though his lower half was beneath the counter, and she quickly jerked her attention back up, but not before she felt her face heat. “And the TMI is complete.”
He laughed. “Fine. Enough about underwear. All I’m saying is that there are sparks already. You just have to try new things and figure out what’s going to set you on fire.”
She rubbed her lips together, her skin too hot. He wasn’t talking about the two of them, but her mind kept wanting to go there. Trying things with him and seeing what set her on fire. She pushed the thought away, shoving it into an increasingly stuffed mental closet labeled Shit You Should Never Think About. “And cooking lights that fire for you?”
He rested on his forearms, bringing him closer, his gaze intent, honest. “It does. Among other things.”
If she closed the space, leaned in, she could kiss him. Some reckless part of her wanted to, wanted to pretend that he wasn’t a guy who’d cheated on his wife and that she was a woman who could hook up with a hot stranger without a care. She could already see the scene playing out in her head. Wes’s lips on hers, the spicy taste of the food and wine lingering between them. Him stepping around the island and pushing her up against a wall, making her forget the horrible night. His mouth moving down her neck, her fingers in his hair, his hands sliding beneath her shirt. He wouldn’t be shy or halting. He’d take over. She could almost feel the heat of him against her, his palms sliding along her bare skin.
“Rebecca…”
Her pulse quickened at the rough sound of his voice, and she swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “Huh?”
“I think the locksmith called out for you.”
“Oh, right.” She quickly shoved her chair back with a loud scraping sound, breaking the strange, quiet spell between them. “Sorry. Excuse me a second.”
Wes leaned back and nodded. “Sure.”
Rebecca hurried to the front of the house, sweat gathering between her breasts and her body too hot in the best places. What the hell was wrong with her? She was not allowed to fantasize about Wesley Garrett. She was not that stupid.