Ghostface Killer(26)

"Thank you." How chivalrous. Benjamin Sabatino is just full of surprises.

"No problem." He cops a feel by sliding his hands around my waist and drawing me close to him. We share a sizzling look. A heart-pounding, concentration-altering, dizzying moment in time.

If he wasn't holding me, I might just fall over.

Once I get my bearings, I follow closely behind Baz to the front porch of his storybook cottage in the woods.

When he opens the door, I walk into quaint, cozy, and rustic decor. If you picture a cabin in the woods, this is exactly what it would look like. Dark brown couches in the living room surrounding a stone fireplace, red plaid accents, and cowhide rugs. Very rugged, just like the home's owner.

"You can toss your stuff in the living room. Bathroom is back through there if you want to freshen up."

"Sounds good." I take my backpack with me and make my way through the kitchen into the bathroom. Once inside, I flip the lock and lean against the door, breathing for what I think is the first time since we left the spring. I have no idea where this night is going to lead or the consequences that will arise tomorrow, but I'm here now, and I'm just going to have to roll with the punches.

I do my business then splash some water on my face. My cheeks are flushed and my hair is tousled, but I've definitely looked worse. I take it upon myself to snoop around the bathroom, checking the cabinets underneath the sink and the contents in the medicine cabinet. Most everything is normal-toothpaste, mouthwash, razor, brush-but there are two large pill bottles. I read the prescriptions, Concerta and Wellbutrin, I'm not familiar with either. 

Realizing I have been holed up for longer than I intended, I make sure my gun and knife are tucked safely away on the bottom of my backpack.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I find Baz moving around the kitchen. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and his long hair is pulled back into a bun.

Yum. I drop my bag on the couch before joining him. "What can I do?"

Baz grins and pops his eyebrows. He's so carefree. "String beans, in the vegetable drawer in the fridge." He points with the knife in his hand.

"Okay." I head to the refrigerator as he dumps a bag of small red potatoes onto a baking sheet. When I open the door, I pause with surprise. The inside is immaculate, every condiment perfectly spaced and in its own place. As I inspect further, I realize all the food is organic. The butter, the yogurt, the milk, even the ketchup.

"Someone is preservative free," I state as I pull out the bag of fresh green beans.

"Your body is a temple," Baz responds as he seasons the potatoes with olive oil and salt.

"Yours definitely is," I toss out offhandedly.

"So is yours." He smiles broadly, returning the compliment.

"Mine isn't nearly as pure." I drop the bag of beans on the kitchen island where he's prepping. He emits a little laugh but doesn't elaborate on his thought. He doesn't need to; I know he equated my comment to something dirty. Which is fine. I like to get dirty. "What am I doing with these?"

"There's a colander in the sink. Snap the ends and toss them in there."

Snap the ends?

He reads my confused facial expression. "Have you never cooked fresh green beans before?"

"Never," I admit. "I'm not very domestic."

"There's nothing wrong with that." He wipes his hands on the dish towel draped over his shoulder and leads me over to the sink. He positions me in front of him and then rips open the plastic bag. With his chest pressed against my back and his strong arms encircling me, my blood roars and heartbeat accelerates. "See? Just like this." He rests his lips next to my ear as he takes one of the long, thin beans and breaks off each pointy tip. "Think you can handle that?"

I turn my head so I can peer up at him through the corner of my eye. "I'm pretty sure I can." We get caught up in another one of those paralyzing, pulse-pounding spells. Baz tightens his arms around me and attempts another kiss. I don't move, welcoming the advance. I close my eyes preparing to feel those soft, plump lips when the oven beeps, sabotaging the moment.

"Shit," Baz hisses, annoyed, before he laughs. We just can't seem to nail a lip-lock down.

It is sort of funny.

I continue to crack the string beans as he pops the potatoes in the oven.

"Those are going to have to cook for a little while before we put on the string beans and steak." He leans against the countertop next to me and crosses his arms causally. Christ, he is so inherently male he makes my damn ovaries throb. "Do you want some wine in the meantime?"

Alcohol? Absolutely. "That'd be great." I finish the last of the beans and grab the towel off his shoulder to wipe my hands.