Cassidy shrugged, washing tumblers in the sink near him. She indicated with a jerk of her chin. “You don’t like the over-cooked ones; thought I’d help you.”
“Knock yourself out.” He tapped the plate to move it in her direction.
“They’re better dipped in mayonnaise.”
Mac made a face. “That’s vile.”
She rolled her eyes in an expression of appreciation. “But so good.”
“Bring me some mayo, and let’s test this theory of yours.”
“You’re on.”
She went to the kitchen and retrieved a small cup of mayonnaise. She leaned on the bar and helped herself to another fry, dipping it in the condiment. Mac watched in guarded fascination as she happily popped it into her mouth and moaned. Taking up a less crispy fry, she dipped it and held it toward him, invitation and challenge in her eyes.
Mac captured her gaze and held it as he leaned forward to take the food from her fingers. He accepted all of it, his lips closing over her fingers, his tongue sweeping between her digits as he gently sucked them clean—a simple gesture full of innuendo and intimation. His promise shot straight between her legs.
Her eyelids drooped as she sucked in a breath; the telltale response so fleeting it could have been mistaken as a trick of the eye if her brightening cheeks hadn’t accompanied it. Her lips tipping upward, she asked, “You like?”
Mac leaned back, studying her. Cassidy knew he was taking in all the signs she was presenting; he knew the signals. She could tell he didn’t understand them, suddenly, from her. His eyes narrowed. “Are you flirting with me, Day?”
Her eyes widened in horror. “What? No! Jesus, your ego.” She pushed back from the bar, but not before grabbing another fry. With an annoyed look, she walked away.
Others were demanding her attention, after all.
She noticed how he watched her more than the game. She supposed he would be wondering about perhaps the friendliest interaction they’d had since they’d met. She’d fed him! Yep, that was full-on flirting.
A woman approached him, as they usually did. She’d never seen Mac pursue anyone. It was like he had a hidden sign advertising, “For Service, Inquire Within,” and women gravitated. Of course, that might have been part of his appeal—his air of disinterest. This one was a curvy, buxom dishwater blonde wearing a tight team T-shirt—her team was losing, by the way—with a deep V and cotton shorts. Long, golden legs from days in the sun, periwinkle blue eyes, dimples in both cheeks and on her chin, heavily made-up and slipping between the men at the bar staring at the overhead screens.
The men gave her space, automatically moving for her. Of course, they did. Pretty voluptuous blonde. They eyed her like hunters do, gauging her trajectory, watching her intently. When her focus was made clear, they looked dejected and irritated that they’d made way but maintained composure—she might be back. No one wanted to burn a bridge yet.
Mac turned to her when she caught his attention by gently placing her hand on his shoulder and leaning into him, laughing with an apologetic look as though she’d been jostled into him. She hadn’t been. Her would-be suitors were behaving. Mac glared over his shoulder at them to ensure the rough treatment of her wouldn’t happen again.
She extended her hand in introduction.
The expression on Mac’s face shifted.
Cassidy dropped her gaze, concentrating on filling her orders.
The bar filled with boos and yays and various shouts at the screens as the game progressed. As the score tightened, the noise level grew. Cassidy moved among them all, unaffected. Baseball. Boring. Above the din, however, she managed to hear her name.
“Day!”
She glanced down the length of the bar as she poured out a martini and shouted back, “What, Mac?”
“Two more.”
“You’re about fourth in line,” she informed him, dropping an olive into the glass.
“I’ll walk your dog if you push it up.”
The blonde giggled. “Oh my god, you have a dog?”
Cassidy shot back, “Now you’re eighth in line; keep it up, Boyer.” She slid the drink across to the waiting patron and started a rum and coke while pulling a pail out for a bucket of beer order.
While she was in the refrigerator, she grabbed his two beers and slammed them on the bar, not saying a word.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” came the amused response.