I take out some plates,some cloth napkins. Fuck, this house was move-in ready, and it has everything I need to woo a woman. Sure, I’d like her in my bed, butfuck, I’d be happy with her sitting in my goddamn lap.
When the steaks are resting on a cutting board, I walk right the fuck over to the edge of the property and I ask her, “Hey, Lemon. You have any plans for dinner?”
She licks her lips, setting her tablet down. Then she takes a long sip of that white wine, finishing the glass entirely.
“Are you asking me out?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I'm asking you to come over to my cabin and eat the steak I just grilled you. You eat meat?”
She laughs. “Yeah. I love to eat meat.”
“You want to eat my meat?” I ask her. My eyes, they're locked on hers.
She gives me a deadpan look that turns me on in ways I was not prepared for. “You really asking me to come over to eat your meat?”
“Yeah, Lemon, I am. I want you to come over to my house in that tiny little bikini. And I want you to sit down and eat my meat.”
“All right.” She stands. “I mean, it is my birthday week.”
I smile. “Good answer.”
She looks down at herself. “Should I change?”
I shake my head. “Not unless you want to.”
She slides her feet into a pair of flip-flops and then reaches for the sheer white kaftan on the back of her chair, slipping her arms into it. It hangs to her mid-thigh, and I can’t help but marvel at the curves of her body. She knows I am staring, but the truth is, she is staring at my eight-pack, at my biceps, and I want her to keep on looking if it is giving her ideas of where this night might go.
She walks down her back steps and crosses into my yard.
“I'm glad you can make it,” I say.
She laughs. “Yeah, I’ve been drooling for the last hour while you’ve been cooking.”
“Good,” I admit. “I was hoping to tempt you with my prowess in the kitchen.”
“Really?” She stops, resting a hand on my elbow. “Were you really doing that? Trying to woo me over here?”
I nod. “Yeah, to be fair, there are a lot of things I’m not great at. But I can grill steak. I can fillet a fish. I can make a good Caesar salad. Baked potatoes? I'm your man.”
She twists her lips. Pressing a finger to her chin, testing me. “How are you with dessert?”
I throw my head back and laugh. “I have a few specialties.”
“And they are?” she asks, dead serious.
“I can do a mean skillet chocolate chip cookie.”
“Enough said. You should lead with that, Anchor.”
“Really?” I laugh.
“That's wildly impressive. My mom, she would be all over you.”
“Is that a compliment or…?”
Lemon nods. “Oh yeah, that's a compliment. My mom is a total foodie. She hosts Sunday dinner every week. And no one's allowed to miss. And every week it's like a whole thing—what she's gonna make. She takes her dinner menu very seriously.” Lemon gives me a big smile as we walk into the house.
“Sunday dinner, huh? Sounds pretty old-school. Who comes?”