“Medium rare is fine, or however it turns out. I’m not picky when it comes to food cooked by someone who isn’t me.”

“Not a fan of cooking?”

Emilia hesitated before answering. She had liked cooking, once. Hannah hadn’t cooked at all, and her schedule had been even crazier than Emilia’s, so she’d done most of the work involved in feeding them. Cooking for herself, however, felt like a chore. It also reminded her of her father.

“I used to.” She couldn’t lie to those eyes.

Morgan had to have noticed the past tense, but she didn’t push it. Emilia put that as one more mark in her favor. At this rate, the boating safety comment would soon be buried.

“Your cookies were good.”

“You must like them crunchy.”

“I do, actually. I have to grab the steaks. Do you need another beer?”

“What about this precious angel?” Emilia tucked Hermione against her chest.

“Clearly she’s made herself at home. Keep her.” Morgan’s eyes trailed slowly down Emilia’s chest, then jerked away as if she’d just realized where she was looking. Emilia glanced down to discover that Hermione had tucked her nose into her shirt, nestling into—and revealing—her cleavage.

“Yes, she has,” she said, suddenly happier than she could remember being in months. Maybe it was the beer, or the way the little dog sighed in contentment, or maybe it was the intoxicating thrill of power that Morgan’s poorly disguised attraction inspired, but she didn’t care. “And I do need another drink.”

Chapter Seven

Morgan hoped her friends would attribute the flush in her cheeks to the heat of the grill, and not because she done anything so idiotic as getting caught staring at Emilia’s chest. Stop acting like a teenage boy. You know better. That didn’t erase what she’d seen.

“Aww,” chorused the largely female audience when Emilia and Hermione entered the kitchen. Stevie smirked as she met Morgan’s eye, no doubt correctly gauging Morgan’s reaction. Emilia had managed to tug the loose, silvery material of her shirt back up, but it was still provocative.

“Someone give that dog a steak,” Stevie said when she leaned past Morgan to grab another drink from the fridge.

“I will kill you.”

“Mhmm.”

“Hey.” Lillian raised her voice over the buzz of conversation. “I made Morgan build a fire, so let’s move this outside.”

“Plus all the fridge beer is gone,” said Stevie.

That wasn’t entirely true. Morgan grabbed the last one and tossed it to Emilia, who caught it one-handed.

“Opener?”

“Toss it back.” Morgan looped her belt buckle around the top and popped it off.

“Show off.” Stormy patted her on the back. “I could use you at the bar if you’re going to pull stunts like that.”

“She’d make good money in tips,” said Emilia. Her face was smooth and unruffled—unlike her eyes. They met Morgan’s for only a second, but the look in them hit her dead center. She handed Emilia the beer wordlessly as Stormy laughed.

Steaks. She grabbed the first platter and returned to the grill.