“I want the big TV.”
“So do I.”
Crankiness hit her hard. Alexa grabbed onto the emotion, grateful the fear had melted away. She turned her back and stalked into the kitchen. “Fine, I’m calling in my favor.”
He hung his black wool coat in the closet, then stood in the doorway. She took out ingredients for the salad she wouldn’t eat and cut up vegetables for a stir-fry. He grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and poured her a glass. “What did you say?”
“I’m calling in my favor. I want to watch the Mets game downstairs on the big TV. I want you to stay upstairs and watch the Yankees game, and I don’t want to hear a sound. Not a cheer, or a yell, or a ‘Go Yankees’ rally. Got it?”
When she looked back, he gaped at her in sheer amazement, as if she’d sprouted horns. She tried to ignore how adorable he looked, with his mouth slightly open, and those incredible shoulders stretched against the pale gray down shirt. Why did he have to be so damn attractive? The shirt sleeves and collar were still crisp after hours of wear. His charcoal pants still held the crease down the middle. He had unfastened the buttons by the wrist and rolled the material up in his usual fashion. Light-colored hair sprinkled over his forearms and strong fingers gripped the delicate wine glass with a power that made her fidget when she thought of the other things he could touch. She tried not to ogle him like a teenager and focused on chopping.
“You’re insane.” He actually took a few moments to gather his powers of speech before continuing. “These favors are supposed to be used for important things.”
“My choice. My favor.”
He stepped closer. His body heat pulled and tantalized and tortured her mental sanity. She ached to lean back against his chest and let his arms clasp around her waist. She craved to feel all that muscled strength support her and pretend they were a real life married couple. They’d neck in the kitchen and make love on the heavy oak table amidst the wine and pasta. Then share dinner and talk quietly and watch the Mets game together. Alexa forcibly swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed away the fantasy.
“You’re using a favor in order to watch a lousy baseball game?”
“Yep.”
She threw the garlic and peppers in the skillet and he moved another inch. His belt rasped against her buttocks. Even covered in thick denim the threat of a more intimate touch made her hands tremble around the knife. His breath rushed warm against the nape of her neck. He placed both palms flat on the countertop and caged her in. “Favors are rare. Want to waste it on a stupid ball game that doesn’t mean anything?”
“I care about every game the Mets play. You, on the other hand, don’t take it as seriously because you’re complacent. Winning comes too easily. You take it for granted.”
He growled in her ear. “I don’t win all the time.”
She stuck to the topic of baseball. “Even after losing the World Series to the Sox you never lost your arrogance. Still didn’t respect another team.”
“Never knew the poor Yanks caused such a fuss.”
“It’s the fans more than the team. We know what it’s like to lose. And each game we win is a small victory we appreciate and never take for granted. We’re also more loyal.”
“Hmmm. Talking Mets or their fans?”
“See, you think it’s funny. If you experienced loss more, you’d be humbled. The win would feel even sweeter.”
He rested his hands on the curve of her hips. The length of his erection pressed against her rear. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured.
The knife clattered on the chopping block. She spun around and bumped against his chest. He caught her by the shoulders and tipped her chin up. Sensual tension swirled and crested. Her lips parted in unconscious invitation at his admission. “What?”
A savage glint appeared in the depths of tawny eyes. “Maybe I’m starting to appreciate things I can’t have.” He ran one finger roughly down her cheek. Traced her lower lip. Pressed his thumb over the sensitive center of flesh. “Maybe I’m starting to learn about wanting.”
Her mouth went dry. She ran her tongue over her lips to dampen them, and the sensual tension twisted another notch. She poised on the edge of some discovery that would change their relationship, and she battled her instinct to jump over the cliff and to hell with the consequences.
Instead, she forced herself to continue their odd conversation. “So, you agree? You understand why the Mets are a better team?”
A flash of straight white teeth mocked her statement. “No. The Yankees are a better team. They win for one reason.” He whispered his comment against her lips. “They want it more. If you want something bad enough, Alexa, you eventually take it.”
She shoved at his chest and spun back around, wanting to brandish the knife on more than the vegetables. Typical, arrogant, Yankee fan. “I’ll call when dinner’s ready. Until then, I expect you’ll be upstairs.”
His laughter echoed through the kitchen. The chill settled around her as he walked away. Alexa held her breath as he started up the stairs, but the dogs were still quiet.
She raced into the living room, put on the baseball game, pumped up the volume, and went into the back room to check on the canines.
The afghan was torn to shreds.
She pried it out of the black lab’s teeth and stuck it in the bottom desk drawer. The paper was already dirty, so she cleaned up, spread fresh newsprint down, and laid some down over the couch and chair for extra insurance. She refilled the water bowls and figured they’d all have to go out again in another hour before bedtime.
She shut the door, sped into the kitchen, and finished dinner while shouting loud comments to her players.