Chapter 4
“Ugh,” I groan in frustration, resting my head in my hands. My kitchen table is covered in different recipe books, making it look like a bomb went off.
I had dreams, ya know? Big dreams. I was destined to be a high-end chef. I wanted to create pristine dishes with a unique flair, or so I thought.
I quickly realized I hated it. I mean, what the fuck was I even cooking? Sorry, but if I’m eating steak and potatoes, there had better be more than one baby potato on the plate, and the steak better be bigger than my fist… clenched, because a whole hand is more along the lines of a food coma.
Beckett, this is not the time or place to think about fisting…
I’ve spent the last few months figuring out my next steps.
I know I want to cook, but I want to cook real family meals.
The kind you drop in the middle of a table and watch people lean into it.
Meals that you’d serve your friends and loved ones.
Not some stuck-up, pretentious recipes created by equally pretentious men.
My grandma’s recipe book is a map of everything I love—grease-spotted pages, handwritten notes, little burns where she set it too close to the burner.
This one time, she set her dishtowel next to a boiling pot of potatoes.
Almost burned the place down. The book is filled with dishes that hug you from the inside out.
I had a plan in California: a cookbook that told our family’s story, bite by bite.
Until that dream too came tumbling down.
Turns out I trusted the wrong person in a world where people will do anything to run the hottest restaurant kitchens in the world. I let myself be used and taken advantage of.
The lure of a beautiful man did me in. What can I say?
The problem with most sexy and powerful men is that the word “powerful” never seems to go hand in hand with kind, or good, or genuine. No, the word asshole is what usually comes to mind. Recipe-book-stealing asshole.
Dom is the only person who’s ever come off as sexy and powerful but not an asshole.
Well, if he doesn’t stop stalking me, he’ll be an asshole.
He exudes sex and power, but in a “messes me up and makes me dirty” kinda way.
Unfortunately, he has no faith in me or my ability to fix my own damn problems, which he shows with his constant hovering.
I startle at the harsh knock on my door. Jaxon was stopping by today, but that’s definitely not a Jaxon kind of knock.
I swing the door open and forget how to breathe. “Dom?”
Speak of the devil.
“What… what are you doing here?” I crane my neck to look around him like Jaxon might be hiding behind his biceps.
Dom steps past me with a muttered, “Nice to see you too.”
“By all means, come right in,” I deadpan, shutting the door.
“Jaxon got pulled into a last-minute birthday thing at Matthew House,” he says, already scanning the room. “Asked if I could check your washer.”
“And break a couple of doors?” I ask with a smirk.
He winces. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve always wondered what kind of power is behind those muscles of yours,” I flirt.
He stops and stares. And… I’m pretty sure he flexes a little.
“Anyway,” I add quickly, trailing him like a totally normal person and not a lovesick puppy praying for a plumber-bends-over situation. “You didn’t have to rush. It could’ve waited.”
“Jaxon doesn’t want you hauling clothes to the laundromat.” His gaze flicks over me, quick and assessing. “Also, you smell fine.”
I stop smelling my shirt.
“Oh? Just fine?” I tease.
“Sandalwood and… lavender,” he says too casually.
My eyebrows climb. “Do you make a habit of smelling people, Dom?”
A flush climbs his neck. “Shut it.”
I chuckle a little smugly. He was blushing.
He heads for the stacked washer-dryer and pauses at my kitchen table, eyes lingering on the chaos of drafts and recipes. He looks at me for a moment, then back at the stack, but doesn’t comment, just files it away, because of course he does.
“Need help?” I ask as he braces and slides the unit from the wall like it’s on wheels.
“No, keep working.” He nods at the table. “I’ll shout if I need you.”
I nod my head and make my way back over to the kitchen table.
I try, I really do, to focus on my recipes.
It lasts seven seconds. His shirt pulls across his back, forearms flexing, jeans riding low.
My brain supplies a cinematic cut of Dom as a very unserious plumber, mustache and all. My body votes yes with enthusiasm.
Oh, no. How will I ever pay for his services?
I snort before trying to clear my head. Focus. Cookbook. Grandma’s recipes. Not Dom’s forearms.
Except the pages in front of me don’t feel like her. They’re my feeble attempt to replace them after Pierre stole them from me and took the credit as his own. Anger sparks, quick and hot. I snap a pencil in my fist before I know I’m squeezing. Paper balls arc toward the trash and miss by a mile.
Fucking Pierre.
He’s a worthless piece of shit. What kind of person would manipulate someone just to get hold of an old family recipe book? The kind who would turn around and steal my dream right out from under me, that’s who. I won’t make that mistake again.
I was livid when Lucas told me about the rumors going around that Pierre scored a cookbook deal… using my grandmother’s recipes.
I don’t know what to do. There’s no way to prove it. I have most of the recipes committed to memory, but that still won’t prove they were mine. My cookbook dream goes up in smoke.
Dom squats, smooths one out, and reads. “You don’t want this?”
“Nope.” I take it, crush it again, and brick another shot off the cabinet. “Sports were not my calling.”
He straightens, eyes soft with something that isn’t pity. “It sounded good.”
“Well, give it to my ex. He loves taking my things.” The words rip out before I can stop them. I exhale hard. “Sorry. Not your problem.” I sigh. “So, give it to me straight. Can you fix the washer, or is the laundromat still making me its bitch?”
“Well, if the laundromat has that much power over you, may I suggest seeking help?”
I flip him off, and it feels so good.
“But for real. I’m sorry, there’s a fuse blown in the blower motor. I can order a new one, but it says it won’t get here until next week. Jim down at the hardware store might have it, but probably not.”
I fold my arms on the table, resting my head on them with a dramatic thunk… There may be some slight banging going on. “It’s fine, totally fine.” I can stop by the bank tomorrow and pick up more quarters.
“No.”
I lift my head. “No? What do you mean, no? I need to wash my clothes, Dom. Trust me, it takes a lot to smell like sandalwood and lavender at the end of the day. And it usually involves a shower and a clean pair of tiny briefs.” I give a little wink.
His eyes fill with heat at the mention of my preferred sleeping garments. Really, it’s naked, but if I said that, I’m pretty sure the cute little vein that pops out of his forehead when he gets mad would explode.
He rolls his eyes at me. “You’ll do laundry at my place until the part comes.” He says it like it’s decided.
Hmmm, I think about it for a second. Not ideal, but also… not not ideal. No doubt it will aid Dom in his quest to find out why I’m home. But maybe I can use this to my advantage.
“Well now,” I say. “Only if you promise not to look at my unmentionables.” I tilt my head up, batting my lashes at him.
“I won’t look at your underwear,” he says, jaw tight.
“Tragic.” I stick out my hand. “But I guess we have a deal.”
Dom raises an eyebrow skeptically before clasping my hand.
I lean in real close… “This is good. I ran out of clean briefs this morning and had to go commando.” I lean up and kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
I catch Dom’s eyes darting south before he clears his throat and a blush creeps up his neck. “I’m just gonna check out this window since I’m here.”
“Does your kitchen work?”
Dom cocks his head in confusion. “Yes…” he says slowly.
“Good, let me cook you dinner tonight. Payment for services rendered. My way of saying thank you. Plus, while I’m there, I can do a load of laundry.” Seriously, I’m out of underwear, and I have one clean shirt.
I give his chest a pat, then another. Fuck, his chest is hard and muscular, but also firm and soft. I wonder if he likes his nipples played with. I could suck on those babies until…
Dom clears his throat, and I look down, watching myself as I give his pec a squeeze. “Right.” I quickly remove my hand. “I’ll stop at the store on my way over and pick up a few things.”
“You cooking…” he says, eyes finally clearing. “Is not payment. It’s bribery. The good kind.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“That’s a yes,” he concedes.
I shuffle through recipes and land on honey-glazed salmon. “Perfect.”
He leans in a fraction, voice gone low. “I want to eat whatever you make.”
Heat zips down my spine. “Careful, big guy. You can’t say things like that in my kitchen.”
“Then stop looking at me like that,” he murmurs.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to climb me.”
I grin slowly. “What if I do?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and his hand slides almost absent-mindedly to rest on the back of the chair near my hip. “Little mouse,” he returns, and the nickname lands soft and filthy all at once.
“Six?” I manage.
“Six,” he echoes, stepping back. “Text me a list if you need anything from the store.”
“I only need one thing,” I say, reckless now.
He arches a brow.
“You, opening the door at six… I mean, because I’ll have my hands full. With food… for us to eat. I mean… with our mouths.” Jesus… Fuck. Have I mentioned I suck at flirting?
His mouth tips up, barely. “Done.”
He gathers his tools and heads for the door, but then he pauses and looks back. “And Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
He takes me in, all of me—the messy table, the evidence of a day that didn’t go my way… “Commando was a terrible idea.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, innocent as a saint.
“Because I’m trying to be respectful,” he says, and leaves me with nothing but the echo of that and the warm, infuriating knowledge that dinner is going to be a very, very long wait.