Mister Romance by Amelia Simone (the reading list .txt) 📕

nodded. “A little. I hope that’s okay. I’ll keep the salsa verde pretty mild. The chorizo might have a little heat to it, but you can always skip that if you prefer.”

Her eyes lit for the first time. My recipe talk was working. “I like it hot. Is this a hard recipe to make?”

Hot. Hard. Ay, dios mio.

She didn’t mean it like that. Beating down the twelve-year-old snickering inside, I walked her through the stages of the meal while she sipped her wine and asked questions about my cooking techniques.

Talking about the recipe gave us both something neutral to focus on. I tried not to get so distracted by her keen eyes that I cut off something important. A trip to the ER would ruin the mood, and for once, I was impressing a woman, just by being myself. Her body language became progressively more relaxed. She lost the tightness in her spine and sank onto the stool. Success. Of course, that could also have been the wine. Whatever. I poured her the wine, so I still won.

I plated our meals and placed them on the table. Talking for a solid twenty minutes without saying something stupid might be a personal best. Maybe this was the secret to meeting women; find a cooking class and restrict myself to talking about food.

I refilled both of our wine glasses and added water glasses before joining Tamra at the table. We dug into our meals, and I sighed in satisfaction at my first bite. I’d done a good job balancing the flavors; there was the spicy chorizo, the butteriness of the chicken, and the tang of the tomato rice smothered in the almond and cilantro salsa verde. It was an explosion of flavors that melded perfectly. My go-to dish when I didn’t want to risk a new recipe.

Tamra moaned softly from her seat across from me. I glanced up to make sure it was a sound of pleasure and not pain. Was the chorizo too hot? Not everyone liked a hot sausage.

Her face was illuminated in post-orgasmic glow. Or at least a reasonable facsimile. Blissed out. Tamra’s dark eyes were relaxed and heavy lidded. She’d gone from cute and competent to sex goddess in the space of a few bites. I squirmed. I’d never been jealous of my food before.

My blood drained south as she took another bite and moaned again. God. Food porn. The best kind. I told myself to ignore the fact that my pants were getting tighter. Her reaction made it obvious she’d forgotten I was there. She was lusting after her plate, not me. I willed my erection away. I needed to return the favor and focus on my own meal. Spicy. Delicious. A bead of sweat formed at my brow and I took a gulp of water to blunt my thirst. If I couldn’t get my mind out of the gutter soon, spilling the ice water in my lap was turning into a viable Plan B.

Tamra groaned again as she took a bite, then seemed to realize what she’d done. I was enchanted to see the pink of her cheeks get noticeably darker. Her eyes met mine, her earlier relaxation fading away. Damn. I was sad to see it go. So sad that I’d do nearly anything to regain it.

With more theater than was necessary, I added my own groan as I took a bite. Her gaze shifted to me, then she started to laugh. What started as a short snort quickly bloomed into something larger and louder. My mouth crept up at the corners, glad she hadn’t retreated into her shell.

“It’s really, really good,” she acknowledged with a quick tilt of her lips.

“Thanks. It’s one area where I can usually deliver. When writing has me down and I feel like absolute crap, I turn to the kitchen. Eating well is my self-care.”

“Is writing that difficult? I guess I just picture you at your desk, pounding away at a keyboard in between thoughtful pauses. Maybe with a maniacal laugh every time you’re about to dash some poor reader’s hopes.” Her lips twitched again as she teased me gently.

“Eh.” I shrugged, trying for nonchalant. “Sometimes it’s like that. Mostly writing is tedious work, reading and rereading what I’ve written, looking for continuity errors and trying to streamline my work. Make it perfect. Which is impossible.”

“Tedious?” she probed. “What about the sex scenes? Are those tedious too?” she asked with a raised brow.

“I know the right answer is no,” I told her. “But the reality is that damn, they are so hard.”

“That’s what she said!”

I couldn’t help but laugh at her blurted comment. “No, really. It’s difficult. Incredibly difficult for me. They take forever to write. I barely know what to do with a woman in reality, but I have to pretend to be one and describe everything from the feminine perspective. I’m pretty sure I suck.”

Admitting that out loud probably ensured I’d never see Tamra’s sex goddess side again. Any illusions she had about my bedroom skills were shot to hell. I’d as much as admitted that A) I didn’t get much practice, and B) I wasn’t any good. Cue her scuttling out as quickly as possible after dinner.

If anything, Tamra appeared more intrigued. She leaned in and caught my glance as I tried to focus on anything but the anticipated pitying look. “Well, I think your writing is fantastic. I wasn’t expecting you to be so humble about it.”

Humble. Yeah, that’s me. Not sucky, humble. She could tell I wasn’t convinced her praise was real. She reached a hand to my shoulder. “No, really. Your love scenes are artfully done. I would have never guessed you wrote them.” She seemed to realize how that sounded too late. “You write convincingly from the female perspective,” she added quickly.

“It usually takes me multiple sessions to write the hotter scenes. When I get stuck, I try to get outside and do something else. Biking helps me settle my mind.”

“Like a motorcycle?” she