16. Ava
16
AVA
A s soon as I’m dressed, I rush out to the kitchen and upon entering, stop dead in my tracks.
Oh.
My.
GOD!
“Wow,” I breathe out, in shock by what I’m seeing. Every single inch of counter space is full of items, the baking necessities needed to make some of my favorite creations. From pots and pans to sugar and flour—chocolate and fondant, and even a piping gun set.
They’re new and good quality, making the excitement in me grow.
It’s been so long, and giddiness I haven’t felt in months blooms deep inside my chest with the rush of a freight train. It helps push away every negative thought, momentarily forcing back the living nightmare I’m currently navigating through into the back of my mind.
Ideas form as another reality takes center stage. He saw me and listened.
It slams into me, and I can’t stop the giggle that escapes. This thoughtful act touches me in a way that leaves me breathless, and my heart beats rapidly inside my chest while my body feels as though I’m temporarily walking on sunshine.
Light. Carefree. Itching to start measuring my ingredients, but then I notice the small Post-It attached to a bag of semi-sweet dark chocolate.
When did he have the time? “Better yet, how long was I in that shower?” I ask the empty kitchen, my eyes pinging from one end to the other, cataloging the melt-me-like-butter sight in front of me. And for the first time in months, I’m not being drowned by my fear—I’m excited.
Every day and with each interaction, my desires for him grow. My feelings morph.
Before this is over, these flip-flopping emotions are going to give me a mental breakdown.
Doesn’t this man realize that every smile or touch and the way he simply listens to me breaks down my walls and decimates the rationale that knows this is wrong? That we can’t start something while he’s my police-issued bodyguard? I can’t afford to let my guard down, and neither can he, but then he does things like this and…
It’s bad and oh-so-good but dangerous to my psyche.
It could be fatal for me. For Eli.
“I fell for him.” Even as I say the words out loud, the truth behind them is undeniable. This screams romance-book fast, and it makes no sense, but I did. I walk to the island and pick up the note, reading the quick lines in his penmanship. They’re simple and sweet, and that butterfly fluttering in my belly takes off at a rapid pace, causing my smile to go from small to cheesy.
Go nuts, sweetheart. Have fun.
AND most importantly, I like all things chocolate.
Yours, Eli
“He’s freaking adorable,” I whisper to myself and then turn on my heels toward his office. After my failure at avoidance and our truce, Elijah offered me the use of his laptop anytime I needed it.
Well, today I need it.
I have a Google folder full of recipes, and one in particular is calling my name. It’s a chocolate and hazelnut torte with a hint of spiced rum that is to die for. My mother came up with this recipe when I was twelve, but over the years I’ve tweaked it—made it my own with an alcohol glaze each of the seven layers gets bathed in.
His personal laptop sits on his desk; however, I notice the files from earlier and his work computer are now gone. Don’t think about that. Don’t ruin the moment.
“Right. Get the recipe, and for the rest of the day pretend that everything is perfect. Enjoy his generosity and gift.” Or as best I can. And I plan to, but my curiosity is also tingling, and instead, I take the opportunity to snoop a tiny bit.
See more of who Elijah is.
The room is a decent size and decorated with a warm sandy color on the wall and a white trim. A desk sits in the middle of the room with a wall of bookcases behind it, both in a dark and rich wood finish. On the left is a small table that holds what looks to be a signed basketball and a football helmet: teams from the state of California.
There’s also a rug and a large picture of some sort of mechanical item that I can’t identify.
Other than that, he has a lot of books:
On his shelf. The left side of his desk. Stacked high on the chair opposite his work area.
I love it.
My feet carry me to his bookcase, and I inspect the titles there, noticing that he owns a few of my favorite classics. There are also a few mystery and psychological thrillers. The one that catches my eye, though, is a very worn copy of the Art of War .
Taking it in my hands, I open to the first few pages and notice his notes within. From a favorite line to his interpretation, he’s made it a mission to decipher each word in a way that aligns with his perspective.
It’s endearing and as I read a few, I find myself smiling.
“Definitely too cute.” Putting it back, I take notice of a picture on the next shelf. There’s no denying the younger version of himself wearing a graduation cap from his high school, and the woman beside him has to be his mother. They look so much alike—black hair and hazel eyes with wide, infectious smiles. She looks so proud, and he’s letting her have her moment.
He really is perfect.
I move on to another picture, and this one is from his academy graduation. Still a younger version, but more of a man—bulkier and with less of a baby face. Here, he has a well-defined jawline and kissable lips, strong arms, and sexy eyes.
You came here for a recipe, not to drool over his pictures.
“Right. Recipe.” Taking a few steps back, I turn around and sit down in his chair. There’s no password, so I’m inside and typing my email information within seconds. The very moment it opens, things change for me, and the happiness I’ve felt since walking into his kitchen evaporates. There are hundreds of unopened emails, all from the same address.
Each subject line is more desperate—angrier than the next as my eyes skim down the page.
“How the hell has he been able to do this?” Clicking on the arrow that takes me to the very last page, I look at the dates and realize that some of these go as far back as Lyle’s time in custody. Multiple times a day. Every single day. “No. I’m not going to look at this anymore.” Leaving the emails, I get up and rush out of the room. I’ll wing the dessert. It’s better for me that way. “I’m safe, and Elijah won’t let anything happen to me.”
I have to believe that, or I’ll go insane.
“Someone’s been busy.”
“Shit!” I yelp, dropping the plate I’m washing into the sink full of soapy water. It’s so cold, splashing and soaking the front of my thin tank top. My hands hold onto the sink’s edge, my heart racing as I try to calm the quick wave of panic. “Why do you keep doing that to me?”
“I’ve been calling your name since I walked into the house, sweetheart.” He’s not apologetic in the least. A little amused.
“Liar.” But I also don’t doubt him. I’ve done everything in my power to concentrate on our feast, losing myself in something that’s always brought me comfort. When I’m in the kitchen, I’m whole. At peace.
“Look at me.” And I do, my body turning around before I give it permission to. “Are you okay?”
“I’m...”
“The truth, please.”
Instead of sharing how I’m feeling, I take in the items in his arms. How do you stay mad at a man holding a single sunflower and a bottle of wine?
The answer is you don’t. So I pretend to be clueless because my resolve can only hold so strong, especially after the sweet surprise of allowing me to take over his kitchen. To bake.
God knows I’m already hanging onto a threadbare line of sanity and decorum. I want the items in his hands to be for me, but wanting something and it being a reality are two very different things.
Complicates my plans.
That I must fight this for both our sakes.
“Are you leaving again?” At my question, he shakes his head. This is bad. Very bad. “Someone gave you a gift, Detective?”
“I’m Eli to you, not Detective.” Elijah’s lips curl into a sexy grin as he steps closer. One foot and then the other, he doesn’t stop until he’s standing close enough that his masculine scent infiltrates my senses. That his heat sears an invisible tattoo of his name on my skin.
“What are you doing?” It leaves me on a shaky breath, goosebumps rising across my flesh.
“Just giving you a gift.” He reaches behind me and places the bottle of wine on the countertop, his arm brushing mine. My reaction is automatic; I shiver, and his eyes meet mine. Hazel on blue. “Is that okay? After today, you deserve to be spoiled a bit. Let me.”
There’s a plea there, and that’s a first. The normally demanding detective is asking, not telling.
“Yes.” A whisper. An agreement to give in, even though I know it’ll be a mistake.
“Thank you.” His hand lifts and caresses my cheek before stepping back, and it’s with this slight separation that I become aware of the flower in my hand. The petals are soft and skimming across my skin. “Now, how about you explain all of this?”
I can’t stop the blush that blooms and spreads, my lips parting as I try to come up with a good enough excuse and tell him what I’ve done. And, I’ve done a lot of it .
“How about you disclose when you bought all the bakeware and ingredients? When did you find the time?”
“The grocery store app and their delivery service.”
“I was only in the shower for an hour and a half at the most.” That might have come out on a higher pitch, my pointer finger doing a weird circle and then jab-him-in-the-chest thing. His pecs flex beneath my touch and my knees weaken for a moment. “It’s impossible to have?—”
“How about a thank you.”
“How about you explain,” I counter, an open palm now pressed to his chest.
“As I said…” His lips twitch, but Elijah’s position in this ridiculous argument is strong. “I ordered everything while we stopped for ice cream on the way back from our walk. It was plenty of time, Ava. Just a slightly higher than normal fee for their troubles, and you had what brought this cheeky grin to your face.”
Am I smiling? Yes.
Does the handsome devil have an answer for everything? Also, yes.
“Hungry?” I ask then, changing the subject.
“Are we hosting a party I wasn’t aware of?” It’s his turn to counter, and for a split second, his eyes lower, taking in the wet fabric clinging to my chest. I watch as he licks those lips, and when his hazel orbs meet mine again, they’re heated. Hungry. Yearning. “And yes, I could eat.”
Instantly, my thighs clench and my panties dampen. My body flushes with heat and desire.
God help me keep my hands to myself. Must not touch, kiss, or lick him.
“That’s a bit dramatic, Elijah,” I force out, and he just raises a brow as my blush deepens. “Fine. You said to have fun, and I went nuts. It’s been a while since I’ve cooked—wanted to—and I made a few of my favorites. Besides...” I wave a hand toward the three desserts already cooling and then at his oven. “It’s just a simple meal. A tiny way to thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“You didn’t have to do?—”
“And you missed the part where I said, I wanted to.”
“If you’ll let me finish,” he says, mock glare in place. “You’ll know I’m thankful you did. I’m starving, and it smells amazing in here.”
“Good.” With that, I turn once more and open a cabinet nearby. “Do you have a vase?”
“Not a small one, but there might be something we can use.” His deep timbre is an inch or two away from my ear, his front almost touching my back as he reaches overhead to pull out a tall drinking glass. Placing it beside my hand on the marble, he nudges it and then removes himself completely. “That should work.”
“Yeah, it does.” A bit shaky. Breathy. I busy myself by filling the glass and then placing the sunflower inside, making sure that it’s leaning just right. “The food will be ready soon, and I hope you love enchiladas. I made them three ways like my mother did: green, red, and white sauce. Two with chicken and one beef.”
“Love them. What do you need me to do?”
“Can you set the table?”
“Setting tables is my talent.” When I throw him a quizzical look from over my shoulder, he just shrugs. “Something my mother made sure I knew how to do. It’s my job at every family function.” Eli grabs what he needs without another word and walks out toward the dining room, leaving me alone to collect myself, calm my breathing, and pull our dinner from the oven.
It’s totally cute that his mother taught him that.
Not helping my situation...
He also gets brownie points for the flower.
I have to resist him.
“Hey, do you need help carrying that in here?” he calls out from the other room, and I almost bang my head on his cabinet. He’s thoughtful, sweet, a bit cocky, and sexy in that unique way only a real man can pull off.
“No, I got it.” Looking down at myself, I realize I’m still in a wet top and rush toward my room. That’s what he does to me; I’m not paying a lick of attention, and that just won’t do. I’m in and out in seconds. With a clean crop top on in a soft shade of grey, I stop at the hall bath to splash a bit of water on my face.
It couldn’t have taken me more than five minutes tops, but when I re-enter the kitchen, the three small trays were gone. So are the sides of rice, beans, guacamole, and pico de gallo. I also hear the clang of a serving spoon as he scoops up a portion and I follow, entering his dining area and finding an intimate setting for two.
Our food is served, my glass is filled with wine, and his handsome face stands behind a chair pulled out for me to sit. God help me, it’s too much. After everything he’s done for me, the surprise and being so damn understanding, I give in.
All of me wants this.
I’m not strong, and before I talk myself out of it, I walk straight toward him and press my lips to his.
All. His. Fault.