The Southern sun beat down on Harmony, Georgia, baking the asphalt to a shimmering haze. Even the cicadas seemed to be panting with the effort of their incessant drone. Inside “The Blue Plate Special,” however, the air was thick with a different kind of heat. A heat that had nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with the man currently invading my personal space.
“Honestly, Delilah,” Beau whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through me. “You’d think after all these years, you’d have learned to share.” His eyes, the color of aged bourbon, danced with amusement as he watched my reaction. He knew exactly what he was doing, the infuriating, gorgeous bastard.
My hand tightened around the spatula I was wielding, the metal digging into my palm. “This isn’t about sharing, Beau. This is about you waltzing in here, claiming divine right to my kitchen because of some harebrained scheme the town council cooked up.”
His grin widened, showcasing teeth that could charm the paint off a wall. “Harebrained scheme that benefits us both, darlin’. Harmony’s centennial celebration. Think of the exposure, Delilah. Think of the profits.” He leaned closer, the scent of woodsmoke and something inherently him filling my senses. “And think of the fun we could have… working together.”
Fun? With Beau Montgomery? The man whose BBQ joint across the street had been stealing my lunch crowd for the past five years? Fun was definitely not the word I’d use. Torture, maybe. Temptation, definitely.
“The only fun I foresee is you packing up your smoker and getting out of my kitchen,” I retorted, trying to inject steel into my voice. But his nearness was doing things to my carefully constructed defenses. Things involving flushed cheeks and a sudden inability to remember basic cooking temperatures.
He chuckled, a sound that reverberated through the small kitchen like a forbidden melody. “Now, Delilah, is that any way to treat your… partner?” He drawled the word, letting it linger in the air like a suggestive caress. His gaze dropped to my lips, and I swear I felt a phantom touch, a ghost of his mouth against mine.
I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to lick my suddenly dry lips. “We are not partners. We are… co-occupants. Temporary, and deeply unwelcome, co-occupants.” I punctuated my statement with a sharp jab of the spatula towards his chest. He caught my wrist, his fingers warm and firm against my skin.
“Careful, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice suddenly husky. “Wouldn’t want to start a fire we can’t control.”
My breath hitched. He was right. Being this close to Beau Montgomery was like playing with gasoline and a match. Dangerous. Exhilarating. Utterly irresistible. And I knew, deep down, that this forced collaboration was going to be a slow burn, a delicious, agonizing dance between grits and grudges, between simmering resentment and a hunger I’d been denying for far too long.