glance over her shoulder. “Intrigued, are we?”
But Sam Compton was immune to that look. Which was ironic, considering that
he was the one who had inspired her to start practicing it back when she was
seventeen and just beginning to understand the power of br**sts and eyelashes.
And Sam wasn’t without some looks of his own. His eyes darkened just slightly
before he gave her his trademark crooked grin. “Oh, I’ve been plenty intrigued.
Some of your tips have proven to be very helpful in the bedroom.”
He didn’t bother to dodge Erin’s swat on the back of the head. “Sorry, ma’am, but
you know I’m just supporting your middle daughter’s career endeavors.”
Erin gave him an arch look but didn’t rant at him the way she would have at her
own sons. “Did you bring the stuff?” Riley’s mom asked Sam, returning to her
cooking duties.
“Yup. You sure about this? Does Josh know?”
Riley’s mother waved this away. “He’ll drink it. He’s always been more flexible
with international drink than international eats.”
“What are we talking about here?” Riley asked, desperate for a topic to distract
her from thinking about Sam in bed. With other women. Between her mother’s
presence and his mentioning other bedmates, now didn’t quite seem the right
time to ask if she could see him na**d and then write about it.
“Margaritas, baby,” Sam said, coming up alongside her, resting his forearms on
the counter and leaning in to see the dinner spread. If he noticed the potatoes,
he didn’t say a word.
“Margaritas?” Riley said. “Holy crap, Ma, you’re going all out.”
Erin gave a smug little smile and jerked her chin in the direction of the driveway.
“Go help Sam get the stuff. You two can mix a pitcher.”
“I’m sure a big strong man like Sam can carry a little tequila bottle by himself,”
Riley said, giving him a cartoon flutter of her lashes.
He fluttered right back. “Yes, but then there’s the Cointreau and the coarse salt,
and the limes that went rogue all over the back of my truck. Maybe you can just
tuck those between your limes to keep shit perky …”
Riley looked at her mother and pointed at Sam. “Ma, you hearing this?”
“Do I hear my son’s best friend talking about my daughter’s br**sts? No, I do not.
But I could use a drink all the same, so hurry along now.”
“These are bigger than limes,” Riley muttered as she slid reluctantly from the stool
and checked out her boobs. He didn’t bother to respond. Wasn’t even interested.
She trailed after Sam toward his truck. One didn’t need a car in the Brooklyn
neighborhood where they’d grown up. She and Sam had both lived close enough
to the F and G subway line that there was no need.
But a couple of years earlier, after Sam had decided that corporate life wasn’t for
him, he’d gone and bought himself a distillery up in Greenpoint. Which meant that
there was always a barrel of whisky riding around as Sam’s companion.
She just wished it was his only companion. Riley picked up a pale pink cardigan
off the bench seat of the truck. “Doesn’t this make you look sallow?”
“Angela’s,” he said by way of response. “Get the limes and quit snooping.”
Riley sighed and began retrieving the limes that had rolled every which way in
the truck. But only because she really, really needed that margarita. “You know,
at the grocery store, they often have these clear plastic things … what are they
called … oh right, bags. I’m not sure, but I think you can put fruit in there to avoid
adventures like these.”
He grabbed at a lime that was under her hip, wrestling it free and tossing it in
front of her face before snatching it and giving her a quick grin. “And who’d want
to avoid adventures like these?”
Riley’s breath caught just a little when they made eye contact. It was ridiculous,
really. She’d seen his face a million times over the years, and it never, ever got
old. Never failed to elicit that usual combination of fondness and frustration and
something that might have been horniness, if Riley knew what that felt like.
Not that she was the only woman to get horny from the likes of Sam Compton. It
was almost a shame that he’d decided his passion was mashing grains for
whisky, because he looked like one of the actors who would get cast as “the good-
looking guy” in every possible movie genre.
With blond hair and blue eyes, Sam could have been a run-of-the-mill guy next
door, but the genetics lottery had been kind enough to get everything just right.