We ate noodles straight from the shared plate, sprawled together on the counter, legs tangled and fingers sticky with sauce.
Every bite tasted better than the last probably because Maeve kept feeding me, then licking her own lips in a way that was either a deliberate attack on my self-control or just who she was. Either way, I was toast.
By the time we finished, my stomach was full, my heart was pounding, and my head was full of absolutely nothing useful except for thoughts of Maeve.
Every time her knee brushed mine, or she met my eyes with that secret, knowing smirk, it set off a cascade of heat low in my belly.
She set the last fork down, leaned her elbows on the counter, and gave me a lazy, satisfied grin. "I think we did it. Best damn noodles in existence."
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand—classy, Rhiannon, very impressive—and tried to look nonchalant. "Not bad for teamwork," I said, but it came out softer than I meant.
