Chapter 24 #3
“Not really. I can’t stare at your ass if you’re behind me.”
I bark out a laugh and he looks entirely too satisfied with himself.
I step into his kitchen and stop short. Stunning doesn’t even cover it.
It looks like something out of a celebrity chef’s show.
Everything gleams. Pale quartz counters catch the light, the dark cabinets are sleek and modern, and the professional-grade appliances line the walls like they mean business.
A massive gas range and double ovens dominate one side, all stainless steel and black glass. Warm lighting softens the space.
A long waterfall island sits in the centre, wide enough for six, polished to a mirror shine. Above it hang three smoky glass pendants, glowing softly.
The cookies I could bake in this kitchen. The meals. The holidays. The embarrassing amount of butter I could go through.
Getting a bit ahead of yourself, Elliot. It’s one date. One. And yet here I am imagining myself elbow deep in flour like I own the place.
Arthur moves to the fridge that is roughly the size of a compact car. It looks like it ate my humble fridge for breakfast and is still hungry for more. He pulls the heavy doors open and bright, clean light spills out.
“Our options are an assortment of premade meals I have delivered twice a week.” He sorts through neat stacks of plastic containers arranged with military precision. “Curry and rice. Roast beef and vegetables. The beef and broccoli is good.”
I slide onto one of the tall stools by the island. “I’m not picky.”
Arthur glances back over his broad shoulder, his mouth curving with quiet challenge. “Says the woman who refused my first choice for wining and dining her.”
I press my lips together to hold back a smile. “Good point. God, I am awful. Why do you put up with me?”
He closes the fridge halfway, leaning a little to look at me more directly. His eyes soften. “I have my reasons.”
I swallow. “Such as?”
“The promise of table sex, mostly.”
I laugh so hard I nearly fall off my stool.
So hard I get a stitch in my side and I have to wipe away tears.
When I look back at Arthur, I find him leaning back against the closed fridge doors.
His hands are in his pockets, head resting against the brushed steel.
He looks as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him. Maybe as content too.
I hop down from the stool and pad over to him in my stocking feet. The scent of his aftershave or soap fills my head making me want to nuzzle into him, until I’m completely enveloped in all things him.
“May I?” I ask, motioning to the fridge.
The corners of his mouth turn up as he steps aside.
I pull open the heavy doors not sure what to expect.
There is a stack of premade meals, neatly piled on top of one another on the bottom shelf.
The middle shelves are filled with a mixture of seltzer waters and a few cans of beer.
On the top shelf, there are only condiments.
“I’m guessing you don’t cook much,” I muse as I open an empty vegetable crisper.
He shrugs one shoulder. “No time.”
Peeking in another drawer, I find several different types of cheese. Gouda, aged cheddar, brie. That’s when inspiration strikes.
“Do you have any bread?”
“Yeah. There’s a loaf of sourdough in the pantry.”
“Perfect.” I start grabbing the varieties of cheese. “Can you grab it for me? And some butter? I will also need your biggest frying pan.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“I’m not your physio anymore.” I drop my ingredients on the counter next to the stove.
“True.” He moves in behind me placing the bread on one side of me and the frying pan on the other, effectively locking me in. “And it’s a damn shame. I liked having you tell me what to do.”
He’s so close. I wonder briefly if I were to lean back if he’d wrap his massive arms around me and hold me against him. I must wonder too long, because he backs away to retrieve the butter like I asked. I miss the warmth of his body immediately.
Focusing on the task at hand, I turn my attention back to the stove in front of me.
At least I think it’s a stove. With all the lights and buttons, it might be part stove, part space craft.
I wonder if he bought it the same place he bought his truck.
I press the button I think will turn on the burner and nothing happens.
I press it again, holding it longer. Still nothing.
Arthur comes to stand beside me. He flips a switch lower down on the control panel before pressing the button. A small blue flame suddenly appears, causing me to step back.
“I take it you don’t have a gas stove,” he muses.
“No, thank God.” I laugh. “I may have caused the occasional small fire when forgetting about something in the oven. I’m certain I’d have blown up our house with flammable gases involved.”
“Running people over with cars, arson…you’re a proper menace to society, Baker.”
I lower my voice to a hushed tone. “And don’t you forget it. Now, scram. I need to focus and you’re a distraction.”
“Pot calling the kettle black,” he murmurs as he steps away. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.” As I reach for the loaf of bread, I wonder what he meant by that. Am I the distraction? It’s hard to imagine anything distracting the driven man I’m sharing a kitchen with, let alone me.
Grabbing the bread knife I cut four thick slices, buttering one side of each. I slice the brie and strip away the rind. If this were a cheese and crackers snack I wouldn’t bother, but I want each bite to be melted and gooey.
As the pan preheats, I assemble the sandwiches. Placing the stacked bread and cheese into the hot pan, I lower the heat as the bread begins to sizzle. I’m determined not to burn the first thing I make Arthur Stetson.
After a minute, I flip the first sandwich. Perfect. Golden brown. I flip the second and watch them closely.
I’m so zoned in I don’t notice Arthur offering me the wineglass until he’s waving it in front of my face.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting it. That’s when I realize how little there is in it. Barely a mouthful. I raise an eyebrow at him. “Running low?”
He smiles. “You’re supposed to assess it.”
“Assess it for what?”
“Just to make sure the taste meets your standards.”
I hold his gaze while I throw back the drink in one gulp. “Tastes like fermented grape juice.”
He smirks. “Excellent. Anything else?”
“Red?”
He laughs good-naturedly. “I’m glad the lady approves.”
I lift the first sandwich from the pan and realize I have nowhere to put it. Arthur appears with two plates. I set it down and repeat with the second.
He turns off the burner as I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter. He hands me a paring knife, our movements careful and instinctive, like a well-rehearsed domestic dance.
I slice the apple and divide it between the plates. When I bring dinner to the table, Arthur is setting down two full glasses. I sit in the chair he pulls out for me, and he takes the seat beside mine.
Now that we’re both sitting, a quiet settles in the spacious kitchen and I’m suddenly self-conscious of the simple meal I’ve produced. Grilled cheese and fruit is fine for a Saturday afternoon with Sam, but Arthur is a grown man. This is probably little more than a snack to him.
“It’s not much,” I hedge, pushing my hair behind my ear. “But I hope you—”
“It’s perfect,” he insists, sincerely. And with that simple reassurance, I relax.