Spicy with a Side of Cranberry Sauce (4 page)

“I’m sorry, what?” she asked.

“What would you like to drink?” A waitress stood next to her. She hadn’t even heard the woman approach.

“Water is fine.” She needed something to help cool her down. She glanced back at the menu as Mason gave his drink order. The soft drawl of his words caressed her to the point of distraction. She put the menu down forcefully on the table, and a loud
thwack
echoed around them. She looked at Mason, and his eyes haunted her. He was just as affected as she was. She knew she’d felt the mutual attraction in the store, and it seemed to have gotten stronger since their fight. She’d never been one to argue with someone she was dating. It just wasn’t worth her time. But Mason pushed all her buttons.

“And maybe a margarita. Frozen, please,” she said before the waitress walked away.

Did he know what effect he had on her? He must. No doubt her cheeks were pink, her chest flushed and rising too quickly beneath the thin material.

“Decided on what you want yet?” she asked.

His smile disappeared. Oh, yes, he understood her meaning very clearly. Did he want to be enemies or friends? “I’m going to have fajitas. Shrimp. They’re delicious,” he said. He dropped the last
g
on
going
, every syllable sounding soft and warm as it exited his mouth

She blushed harder. How could he make something so innocuous sound so damned sexy? She didn’t know if she would make it through the night at this rate.

As soon as the waitress set the water down before her, Amy took a sip, trying to cool her molten temperature.

“Has everyone decided?” the waitress said.

Amy looked at her and nodded, grateful for the reprieve from Mason’s scorching gaze. They placed their orders, and Mason started grilling their parents about the past six months. Amy barely listened to the story she already knew. She kept stealing glances of Mason through her mascaraed eyelashes. She wasn’t used to wearing this much makeup, and she had to fight the urge to rub her eyes every few seconds.

Mason looked across the table at Martha and her father as he talked to them. Dad leaned over and squeezed her hand, yanking her out of her thoughts.

“You’re pretty quiet tonight, Ames. Everything okay?”

She nodded.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“I’d say thanks, but I didn’t have anything to do with it. Martha did all the work.”

“I seriously doubt it.” Mason put too much force into the words, then gave her a tight smile. Like she’d done something wrong by getting dressed up. What the hell was he mad about now?

She raised her eyebrows. “But she did. You saw me before,” she said.

“Yes, I did.” He shifted, rubbing his leg slowly against hers. The heat in his voice zinged through her, singeing her insides. Her lips parted before she could stop them. Did he mean he’d liked her casual look? Why did that even matter? She couldn’t care if he found her attractive. She needed him to tolerate her and not try to get between his mom and her dad. That was it.

The waitress came into view and placed Mason’s sizzling skillet before him. “Careful, it’s very hot.” The brunette’s voice dripped with almost as much heat as Mason’s had a second ago, and Amy fought the urge to wrap her arm around the back of his chair. She had no right to feel possessive of a man she’d just met. She’d never been the jealous type.

Mason didn’t acknowledge that the other woman had spoken. He looked right at Amy. The waitress left, and Amy tried to force her gaze away from his. She didn’t even know if she was still breathing. Mason looked down at his plate, breaking the spell, and she turned back to Martha.

“Thank you, by the way. I don’t think I said that before,” Amy said.

Martha smiled, seemingly unaware of the sizzle arcing between her son and Amy. “Not a problem at all, dear. You look lovely.”

Amy shifted in her seat, trying to break the physical contact beneath the table before she went up in flames. But he moved with her, sliding the front of his shin between her calf and the leg of her chair. What was that expression about playing with fire? Well, they were both about to get burned.

He rubbed the soft denim against her sensitive skin, and she clenched her jaw to keep from moaning. Was he doing this on purpose?

The waitress reappeared with the rest of their meals, and Amy stopped trying to move away from him. Instead she grabbed eagerly for her margarita and took a large swallow. The iced mixture soothed her. She pulled her leg back, effectively trapping Mason’s leg between hers and the chair. He gasped but quickly covered the sound with a fake cough.

It was the same cough he’d had when she first walked into the restaurant. She smiled down at her plate as she cut into her enchiladas. If he wanted to play this game, they were going to really play it. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to throw caution to the wind, but maybe he was a little more impulsive than he seemed. His demanding invasion in the kitchen hadn’t appeared to be planned. Or maybe it was. Could he really be that calculating?

Their parents kept up a steady stream of conversation through dinner, allowing her to try to find a way out of this mess. Being antagonistic toward Mason would only make things worse. She took a bite of her food as she considered her options. A burst of spices flowed over her tongue. They didn’t have Mexican restaurants like this up north. She and Mason remained quiet except for answering questions from Martha and Dad. She set her fork and knife down next to the plate when she was finished, taking care to be gentle and not slam things when her body was coiled so tightly with need.

Traitor.

She shouldn’t feel so compelled to have him. She didn’t understand it.

“That was delicious,” she murmured.

“Not too hot for you?” Mason glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his mouth quirking up into a smile.

“Nope. It was just right. But I can’t finish it.” Half an enchilada and some rice still rested on her plate, along with a healthy mound of refried beans. Mason had just finished his last fajita.

“Give it to the garbage disposal,” Martha said.

Amy blinked, confused.

“Mom,” Mason complained.

“What? Ever since you were a kid we’ve joked that you have a hollow leg, so don’t even try to tell me you’re not still hungry,” Martha said.

He shook his head as the waitress came back. She picked up his plate, stepping entirely too close to him for Amy’s comfort. She squashed the burst of jealousy. In turn, Mason leaned closer to her, his right shoulder brushing her left. He smelled of fire and sweet peppers. Her stomach clenched.

The waitress leaned in to take her plate. “You can leave that one.” Mason reached over and lifted the plate. He set it in front of him

Martha laughed. “See?”

“Oh, darn, she took my silverware,” Mason said after the waitress had disappeared from view.

Amy picked up her fork and knife and handed them to him. “Here, use mine.”

He slid his fingers against hers as he took both from her hands. “Thanks,” he said, his voice low. He was definitely giving her mixed signals, and she didn’t like it. And she was giving them right back. Yelling at him, kissing him, pushing him away, and then engaging in this sexy battle of wills. It wasn’t like her. This was too important to screw up just because of her impulsive behavior.

Her skin tingled almost as if she’d been tickled by a thousand tiny feathers. An intimate thing, to use someone’s silverware. Since he’d already thrust his tongue in her mouth, Amy figured he probably wouldn’t mind the germs off her fork. He dug into the rest of her enchiladas and beans, making quick work of them. She tried to pry her gaze from him, but she couldn’t manage.

The salsa music shut off, and the speaker crackled for a second before a man’s voice came through clearly. “Ladies and gentlemen, we do hope you’ve enjoyed your meals.”

The restaurant erupted into applause and shouts of appreciation. Amy looked around.
What?
After a moment, the crowd quieted, and the disembodied voice was back.

“Well, y’all, we’re glad to hear it. If y’all signed up for salsa with Selena and José this evenin’, please finish your meals and come on down to the dance floor. We’ll be gettin’ started round about fifteen after.”

The man’s voice quieted, and the music came back on. Salsa lessons? The look in Mason’s blue eyes told her she was in trouble. Oh, they’d been signed up for salsa lessons, all right. No wonder Martha had insisted she change. Only Amy didn’t do salsa. It was all sexy and coordinated, and how in the world was she supposed to do that? Especially in these heels.

She shook her head. “I hope you don’t expect me to go out there.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Mason’s grin widened as he pushed his plate away and took a sip of his beer.

“Of course we’re going out there, Ames,” her father said. “If Martha’s dragging me out there to be humiliated, you’re coming with me. Come on; don’t leave me in my time of need.”

She groaned. She couldn’t really say no to that. Damn. Yeah, she was going to make an ass of herself. No doubt. Mason wiggled his leg against hers, and she shifted, letting him free. He pushed out all the air through his mouth.

She grabbed her margarita and took a big gulp. If Mason thought they could dance together without their parents realizing something was going on between them, he had no idea how perceptive James Easton could be. Dad had never been one to pry into her private life, and she didn’t want to shove it at him now. Her image of this holiday hadn’t included heating up the dance floor with Martha’s son.

They all chatted for a few more minutes as Amy’s dread grew. Finally the music stopped, and the announcer called them all to the dance floor. She didn’t move.

“Come on. Don’t chicken out on me now, kiddo. You know better than to run from a challenge.”

Amy straightened her shoulders and stood up. She raised her eyebrows at her dad and forced a smile. The heels wobbled beneath her feet, but she grabbed the back of the chair and steadied herself.

“That’s my girl.” He took her hand, and they followed Mason and Martha out to the dance floor. The lights over the floor brightened, shining down on them in multicolored patterns, and the thrumming of the salsa music got louder. A woman in a bright red dress and three-inch stilettos stood at the front of the group. Beside her was a man with dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. He was downright beautiful. Mason stood on her left, and she squeezed her dad’s hand. She so did not want to do this.

“Welcome to tonight’s lesson. I’m José, and this is Selena. We’ve got a pretty small group tonight. No one else wants to volunteer?” José’s voice came over the speakers clearly from the headset mic. He looked out at the crowd, but no one else came forward.

Releasing her grip on her dad, Amy steadied her nerves.

“We’d like all the first timers to step forward, please,” Selena said.

A hot hand touched the small of her back through the thin silk of the dress, and she tensed. Mason’s burning fingers gave her a little push forward, and she stepped away from him with her dad. The instructors broke them into the two groups—beginners and everyone else. She sighed as she was partnered with her dad instead of Mason. Maybe they’d make it through this okay after all.

She listened to the teachers and tried to make her feet and hips move in the right way, but it was hopeless. She stepped on Dad’s feet four times, each time worse than the one before. He winced but didn’t say anything.

“Okay, that’s it. No more, or you’re going to end up with broken toes,” she said, stepping back from him. The last thing they needed was to spend another Thanksgiving in the hospital.

He smiled, looking relieved. She shook her head as he released her, and she moved back. “You’re much better at this than I am. Why don’t you dance with Martha? I’ll just sit the rest of this one out.” She’d tried. That was all he’d asked from her, right?

“All right, honey. Go ahead.”

Amy turned and had to force herself not to run off the dance floor and back to the table. She took another gulp of her margarita as soon as she sat down.

She smiled as she watched her dad wrap his arms around Martha. His salt-and-pepper hair glimmered in the lights from the dance floor as he spun Martha about. He’d changed into jeans and a black shirt, which made his brown eyes even darker. It warmed her heart to see the way he looked at Martha. He’d fallen hard for her. And she could see the same beginnings of the look on Martha’s face as well.

She blinked, trying to get her eyes to focus on the now darker restaurant, and Mason’s form beside the table became clear.

“Hi,” he whispered, placing a hand on the back of her chair and looking down at her.

“What do you want?” Her voice was thankfully drowned out by the throbbing music. She was sick of his shit.

He held out his hands in front of him and sat down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to tease you.”

“Well, while you’re in the mood to apologize, why don’t you decide whether you want to argue with me or kiss me, please? Because it’s getting old fast.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. Again.”

“For what, wanting to kiss me?”

“For everything,” he said. He sounded sincere, but she couldn’t be certain. She didn’t know him that well, after all.

“Martha make you come over and apologize?” she said. She knew from the way he avoided her gaze that Martha had.

“Yes, for being rude and quiet. Not for the other stuff. She also wanted me to try to get you to come out and dance. She said you’ve seemed on edge since I showed up.”

“You think?” She took a deep breath. “Sorry. Shit. I’m sorry too. You may have started it, but I definitely played into it. Neither of us is acting very responsibly.”

“No, we’re not. Look, we only have another minute tops before Mom comes over here to whack me upside the head for being an idiot.” He stuck out his hand to her. “Truce?”

She eyed the hand warily. She didn’t know if she could trust that he’d stop trying to play mind games with her. But this wasn’t the place for that discussion. If he was willing to put on a front instead of using their animosity to drive a wedge between Martha and her dad, she would have to accept him at his word. She wasn’t used to such a hot-and-cold reaction from men. They usually pursued her with a full-court press, not this back-and-forth shit Mason kept playing. But she didn’t think there was another option right now.