“I agree.” He nodded, surprising me. “I’m not much of a country boy.”

I grinned to myself, happy to hear that I hadn’t offended him. Or maybe happy to hear we had that in common, as well.

I’d never been interested in hunting or fishing, although I didn’t think I’d be averse to camping and hiking if I ever got the chance to try them.

Reaching over and grabbing the iPad, I laid it on the island between our plates.

“I’d say the wilderness you brave is far more dangerous, anyway,” I commented, gesturing to the Times-Picayune article I’d found about him online.

He rolled his eyes at the headline: Marek and Blackwell Vying for Senate?

“You investigated me?” he accused, eyeing me playfully as he repeated my words to him from last night.

I licked my lips, trying to hide the smile. “I know how to Google,” I retorted.

I brought up the notes I’d made on the iPad, shoving it over to him as I hopped off my stool and began clearing dishes.

“What’s this?” he asked about what I’d written.

“I made some notes on your platform,” I told him, clearing off the plates and placing them in the dishwasher.

While the food had been in the oven, I’d scanned some articles about him and browsed around his website, taking a look at random press conferences he’d given concerning news in his company or his interest in running for senator.

“Who writes your speeches?” I asked.

“I do.”

My eyebrows shot up, but I didn’t turn away in time. He’d seen my face.

“What?” he asked, sounding defensive.

I dried off my hands and faced him, wondering how I would tell a man as insistent and stubborn as Tyler Marek that he kind of stunk at something.

He watched me, and I gave him an apologetic smile. “No offense,” I inched out, “but your speeches are lacking. You’re about as heartwarming as a meat locker.”

His back straightened and his chin dipped, and for a moment I thought I was in for another spanking.

“And your online presence needs work,” I added. “You’re kind of dull.”

His eyes narrowed. “Get in my lap. I’ll show you how dull I am.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his threat as I circled the island and came to stand at his side.

“Here, look.” I tapped the screen, bringing up his social media.“Your Twitter followers.” I pointed to his number and then brought up another profile. “Mason Blackwell’s Twitter followers.”

I eyed him, hoping he saw the huge difference. Mason Blackwell had five times as many followers, but he didn’t have nearly the influence of Tyler Marek.

Tyler owned a multimillion-dollar worldwide corporation. So why did he come off looking like a hermit?

I went on, scrolling through the iPad, pointing things out. “You tweet – or the person you hired tweets – once every other day. And it’s boring,” I told him. “Retweets of articles, ‘have a nice day everyone,’ Blah.”

Tyler looked up, clearly not appreciating my attitude.

I continued. “He tweets every other hour, and it’s photos, family funnies, mundane crap, but it’s engaging,” I explained, meeting Tyler’s eyes.

He sighed, sounding stubborn. “I already hear this from my brother. I don’t need it from you,” he argued. “Twitter won’t put me in office. People vote for —”

“Whoever’s popular, Tyler,” I cut in, not sorry that I sounded curt. “Sorry to say, but not every voter makes informed decisions.”

And then a thought crossed my mind, and I grinned, grabbing the iPad and snapping a picture of his nearly empty bowl of fruit, save for a strawberry half and two blueberries.

Attaching the photo and adding a caption, I posted it under his profile. Lucky for me the device was already logged into his account.

Handing over the iPad, I let him take a look.

He read, “ ‘Having breakfast on lockdown. Stay safe out there everyone!’ ”

I blew on my fingernails and brushed them over my shirtsleeve, pleased with myself.

His eyebrows nose-dived. “Wait,” he bit out. “You can see my stomach in that picture.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I cooed, nodding.

He glared at me. “My bare stomach, Easton,” he pointed out, as if I were blind.

I held up my pointer finger and thumb, measuring an inch. “Just a sliver.”

The small white ceramic bowl was sitting near the edge of the island. The picture showed not only the bowl, but a nice slice of his tight stomach.

He shoved the iPad at me. “Delete it.”

I grabbed it, feigning nonchalance. “Sorry. No can do.” I shrugged and then looked at the iPad when I heard a notification alert. “Oh, look! It’s already been retweeted twice, and it’s probably been screenshot by ten other users,” I explained. “If you delete it now, it’ll look weird.”

“Give it to me.” He stood up, holding out his hand. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

“No!”

I ran around the island, stuffing the iPad into the microwave, and moved to turn around, but he was already at my back, stopping me.

I breathed out a laugh, the heat of the chase filling my lungs with excitement.

“You can’t have it,” I whispered, plastering my palms against the microwave.

His body blanketed my back, and his lips nuzzled my neck, making my eyelids grow heavy.