“You got enough for me to start from scratch with this one?”
“Yeah.” I laughed at myself. “I actually bought double of everything in case I screwed something up and had to start over.”
“Wow, you are seriously lacking faith in your cooking abilities.” He shook his head. There was humor in his voice, but his back was to me so I couldn’t see if there was a smile on his face.
“No, I’m being honest about my ability,” I countered as I continued to place the sweet potatoes on the cookie sheet in a single layer. It was nearly time for my sister’s group of friends to start arriving. I had about twenty minutes left, unless someone showed up before then. The sweet potatoes might not be done by then, but at least they would be warm when I served them. Maybe forgetting to cook them had been a good thing.
After sprinkling them with some salt, pepper, and a little chili powder, I popped them in the oven. I set the timer on the stove for thirty minutes so I wouldn’t forget when to take them out, and moved on to glance over the other things I had left to do. The menu was a fairly simple one, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to tolerate much else. Sweet potato chips and a special dipping sauce for the appetizer, a summer salad with dressing, some lemon-bail salmon, sautéed green beans and mushrooms, and the chocolate pie and macaroons for dessert. I was forgetting something, but I couldn’t remember what.
Dawson switched on the blender, and the noise of it instantly triggered my memory—drinks! I had bought the stuff to make a few cocktails too. There was a rosemary-blueberry smash drink, as well as a cranberry limeade. I prayed I was a better bartender than I was a cook.
I maneuvered around Dawson and reached for my phone. After bringing up the recipes for the drinks, I gathered all the ingredients, lining everything up on the counter in front of me. I was determined not to screw up these drinks. Dawson had come in and saved the day on the appetizer, the macaroons were crap, but everything else seemed to be looking good. As long as I didn’t burn the sweet potatoes or screw up making these drinks, I was in the clear.
“Anything else I can help with?” Dawson asked as I crushed up some blueberries and rosemary in the bottom of the cocktail shaker I’d bought specifically for tonight.
“Um.” I thought for a second. “I don’t know. Hold on. Let me see if I can get this right.” I squeezed in some honey and a little lemon juice, somehow managing to get a squirt directly in my eye. It burned like a mother. “Damn it!”
“Here.” Dawson gripped my shoulders and positioned me in front of the sink. Tingles slipped along my spine from his sudden touch. “Flush your eye out with some water.”
Ignoring the prickles of sensation coursing through me because of him, I did as he said. Instantly, the stinging died down to nothing. Dawson handed me a paper towel. “Thanks.” I wiped my eyes and left side of my face with it. “Apparently, I can’t even make drinks without something horrible happening,” I muttered.
“Eh, you did good. The pie looks awesome.”
“Have you seen the macaroons? Did you forget about the chunky dip?” I swiped under my eye again, and then glanced at the paper towel. Sure enough, my eyeliner and mascara had been washed down my face. “And now I look like some crazy emo chick with black crap smudged to my chin.”
“It’s not that bad,” Dawson insisted, an amused breath escaping him. He stepped closer to me. “Here, let me.” He took the paper towel from me, and cupped my face with his free hand. He swiped it beneath my eye, erasing the final smudges of my makeup, causing my breath to hitch in my throat. The warmth from his hand radiated from where he gripped my face, and spread all the way to my lower stomach.
His lips hooked into the half-grin I had loved since as far back as I could remember. “There. Got it all.”
“Thank you.” I licked my lips, waiting for him to release me, to take a step back, because I couldn’t. I was rooted in place, unable to breathe from his touch.
Something shifted in his eyes. His breathing turned into shallow gasps that matched my own. The same sensation I’d felt by the fire pit however many nights ago it was seemed to charge the space between us again. This time it harbored more velocity in its build up. I could feel it prickling against my skin, causing my entire body to tingle from his close proximity.
Dawson leaned in, his scent clouded my mind, and made me hunger for him in ways I shouldn’t. His vivid blue eyes and the desire in them had me pinned in place, flaming my craving for him to new levels. His hand that cupped my face slipped to cradle against the nap of my neck, lifting my lips to a position his could better reach them. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t speak. Shockwaves of heat surged through me as his thumb brushed against the sensitive area beneath my earlobe.
I closed my eyes, sealing off myself from the thoughts of my conscience, and waited for the feel of his lips pressed against mine. I wondered if they would steal the breath from my lungs like they had when I was fifteen. I wondered if his kiss would cripple me with lust the way I always imagined. My heart thundered with anticipation inside my chest even though I knew this moment was wrong.
A knock at the front door had us jumping apart in the next heartbeat. I blinked, and my hand flew to my mouth. I was sick with crumbled desire and self-loathing. Emma was in the next room. What the hell had I been thinking? What was Dawson thinking? Another knock echoed through the house.
“I’ll get it!” I shouted loud enough for Emma to hear. More space needed to be between Dawson and me, because my traitorous body wanted him still. I could feel the tendrils of desire coursing through every cell of my being.
“I think,” he said before I could walk too far away from him. I paused and glanced at him. “I should probably go.” He cleared his throat, but he didn’t move. The same sense of disbelief I felt with myself clouded his blue eyes, letting me know he was disgusted with himself as well.
“Okay.” The word came out in a twisted whisper. Part of me felt relieved he wouldn’t be staying to help me with the party, while another wanted him to so we could somehow pick up where we had left off.
I was a horrible sister. The worst of the worst.
Dawson turned away from me, and leaned against the countertop. His head hung in what I knew was shame. I walked to the front door and let my sister’s friends in. Tonight was about Emma. I needed to see her happy again, and I damn sure needed to forget everything about Dawson.
EMMA WAS SMILING. A party with her friends was exactly what she needed to gain her old spark of life back. Once the ice had been broken by Emma making a crazy joke about being wheelchair bound, the tension had released. After a few drinks, and the sweet potato chips appetizer—which I didn’t burn—there wasn’t any more sympathy in their eyes. They saw Emma as she was before, and their good time could be felt throughout the house.
“Wow, you made this?” Emma asked as I set a plate with one foiled fish packet and green beans with mushrooms in front of her. Skepticism flared through her words.
Instead of feeling insulted by her words, pride built in my chest. I had never created such an amazing meal before. Then again, I hadn’t ever harbored the desire to try so hard either.
“Yeah.” I waited with eager eyes for her to taste it. “Try it. Tell me what you think.” I thought it was awesome. I’d picked at one between bringing out the appetizers and refilling drinks.
“This is incredible, Char. Seriously.” Her eyes widened as she continued to chew. “How did you make this?”
“It was actually really easy.” I beamed, basking in Emma’s praise. As a kid I had always craved this from her. “You spray the foil with a little oil, set the fish down, and then sprinkle the spices and garlic on after you layer tomato on top. It baked for around thirty minutes, I think. Nothing to it really.”