Chapter 14 #2
But my body hadn’t gotten the memo. My lips still tingled like they’d been promised something and left waiting.
My chest felt too tight, my thoughts too loud.
Because it wasn’t just attraction—though there was plenty of that—it was the way he’d looked at me, like I was already something important. Like I mattered to him.
I took a slow sip of tea I didn’t taste, and reminded myself why I built walls in the first place. Because moments like that didn’t just stir hope. They made you forget how badly hope could hurt.
And still… when I looked back up, Nate was watching me again, softer now, like he felt it too. And that was the most dangerous part.
“Now that’s the Eliza I want in my kitchen.”
My cheeks flushed. “You already have your grandma.”
“She’s faking carpal tunnel to play matchmaker, I’m pretty sure,” he said with a wink. “But I’m not complaining.”
I shook my head and fought a smile. “Okay, so what dish are we entering with?”
Nate leaned in again. “I vote comfort food. You feel like comfort food.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You know what I mean,” he said, trying to sound innocent. “You’re warm and delicious and leave people wanting more.”
I snorted. “That is the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
“It wasn’t a pickup line. It was a menu description.” He grinned. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
It did. Damn him. I rolled my eyes, but my heart thumped a little faster. “I guess it’s totally normal for us. Besides, every good team needs both a star and a sidekick.”
He bumped my shoulder lightly. “As long as the sidekick gets extra gravy.”
I pretended to study the form while my brain scrambled for solid footing. “Fine. Comfort food. But it has to be good. Simple, nostalgic, maybe with a twist.”
“What’s your go-to comfort meal?” he asked, tracing a finger along the edge of his water glass.
“Chicken pot pie,” I said without hesitation. “From scratch. My grandma taught me when I was ten. It’s one of the specialties at The Honeybrook Inn’s restaurant.”
He smiled like I’d revealed a secret. “See, that’s what I want. Something real. Homey. With a killer biscuit. Or puff pastry. Or a flaky crust. I’ll let you decide.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Can you even make pastry?”
“Absolutely not. But I’m very good at grating cheese and staying out of the way.”
“You’re the dream sous chef,” I deadpanned.
“Oh, I’ll wear the apron. But only if it says Kiss the Cook.”
I laughed and tossed a napkin at him. “You are shameless.”
“And yet, here you are, planning a co-cooked comfort food throwdown with me like it’s totally normal.”
That stopped me for a beat.
Because it wasn’t normal.
It felt like more.
The way his eyes tracked every expression I made. The way he leaned toward me, like gravity pulled him that way. The way I wanted to reach out and brush the sleeve of his flannel just to see if his body was as warm as his smile.
This wasn’t friendship.
This was slow-burn attraction dressed up in biscuits and jokes.
I cleared my throat. “Okay. If I’m cooking with you, I’m in charge of the grocery list.”
“Deal.”
“And the prep.”
“Sure.”
“And plating. I don’t trust you not to just throw food in a bowl and call it rustic.”
He held up his hands. “You wound me. But I accept your terms.”
I grinned, then fiddled with the pen again. “We’ll have to do a trial run.”
His gaze sharpened, but he didn’t move. “You mean in the diner?”
“Well, I can’t exactly whisk gravy in the Coffee Cabin.”
His mouth curved slowly. “You’re inviting yourself into my kitchen?”
“I’m inviting myself to beat every restaurant in the county. You’re just my very charming assistant.”
“Keep talking like that, and I might let you boss me around.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Might? You will let me boss you around.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “I probably will.”
And that’s when it hit me—not just the heat between us, but the strategy. The logic. The sense of control I’d been craving for months.
He leaned in, forearms resting on the table, eyes teasing. “You’re a little scary when you talk like that, you know.”
“Scary?”
“In a good way. Like, you’ve got this whole intimidating older-woman energy.”
I blinked. “Older? Nate, I’m twenty-five.”
He grinned, entirely unbothered. “I mean, I figured you were younger than me. I just turned thirty. Which means I’m technically the older one. But if we’re going by intimidation factor, you win.”
I gave him a look. “You don’t seem very intimidated.”
“Oh, I am,” he said, deadpan. “I’m just hiding it behind extreme charm and the sweet potato fries you selected.”
I snorted, but the warmth in his eyes made my chest flutter. “You’re impossible.”
He shrugged, a crooked smile curving his lips. “You like me that way.”
“Maybe I do.”
He watched me, that little half-smile daring me to admit how much I wanted this partnership, not just for the win, but for the chance to reclaim a piece of myself.
“This isn’t just about cooking,” I said, quieter now.
Nate’s brow furrowed, like he could tell I’d shifted gears. “I know,” he whispered.
“I want to win. I want to prove something.”
Nate didn’t speak at first, he reached across the table and touched my hand. “Then we’ll win.”
Simple. Steady. Certain.
God, he made it so easy to believe I could actually do it. And the way he said it made my stomach flip.
I was in trouble.
Because this wasn’t just about cooking, it was about proximity. Chemistry. Trust.
And right now, sitting in his booth, planning our team-up for a public competition, I wanted so badly to forget every reason I’d told myself to stay away from him.
Nate must’ve sensed it too, because his voice dropped a little. “I’m glad you didn’t cancel our lunch.”
“So am I,” I whispered.
He reached across the table and tapped the form. “Let’s do this.”
And just like that, I was all in.
But as I scribbled my name on the dotted line, a quiet voice in my head reminded me: I couldn't let myself fall for Nate. No matter how easy he made it, or how much I wanted to forget my own rules, I had to keep my guard up. I had to protect him.