Chapter 13
13
Poppy
“Why are you isolating yourself from the rest of the world?”
“I’m not isolated. You’re here.” His right cheek quirks upward.
“Ha. For real, though. Personal? Business?” I lift an eyebrow in teasing suspicion. “Escaping the law?”
Since we’re leaning against opposite counters, our feet are crossed at the ankle next to each other’s. It’s been pleasantly casual and easy to spend time with him since we manage to get over the initial hiccups of this relationship. He replies, “I’m pretty sure they’d find me if I were hiding from the law. This is my parents' house after all.”
“If it’s their house, where are they? Hmm ?” I laugh because even though I know he’ll have a reasonable explanation, it was the perfect setup for a gotcha moment.
“San Diego.” Unexpected once again just like his foot that occasionally taps into me. He’s been playing it off. I’ve been pretending not to notice. I think it’s on purpose, but whatever this is, it’s been nice to get to know him .
I stop from plopping the grape in my mouth. “Are you really going to make me ask every last question? You can offer up the answer on your own, you know?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he chuckles. “I know. It’s more fun this way, though.”
My eye roll practically bruises the socket on that spin. “By the way, this is totally against the contract I signed, so I’m going to need you to rip that up so we can continue the fun.”
“Done.” He plucks two more grapes off the vine. “I’m from San Diego. That’s where my family still is. This house is a retreat, a place to escape the outside world for a bit and reconnect.”
“Do you guys still come here as a family?”
“Every couple of years. With my sister having her family now and the tou—work busier than ever, it’s hard for us to align our schedules. My parents come here in the warmer weather to escape some of the brutal summer months, especially when it’s been months without rain. What about you, Poppy? Where do you go to escape life?”
“Oh no, no. You’re much more interesting.”
Chuckling, he shakes his head, that charm not able to hide only in his eyes anymore. “I beg to differ.”
“You can beg all you want, but I really don’t have much going on. The accident had me stuck out in Beacon Pointe for a while.” I eye him, kind of hoping he’s never heard of it. Most people have heard of the university but not the enclave of wealth that surrounds it. As much as I don’t want to be pinned as a spoiled rich kid, I won’t lie about my upbringing, especially not after he’s been so honest and upfront in answering my questions. I pop another grape in my mouth.
“Not where you wanted to be?”
“No, not really, but I had no choice. I needed round-the- clock care for a few months.” Exposing my life to Laird wasn’t on the agenda for today, but with being trapped inside due to the weather, it’s been nice to talk to him. I’d be stuck in the bedroom if I were on another job. He’s different from anyone I’ve ever worked for.
“I hate that you went through that.”
He barely knows me, but he sounds so genuine and more sincere than my own mother. “If nothing else came from it, it brought Trevor and my mother together.” I can’t help but laugh. It’s the only way for me to get through the betrayal.
“That’s your stepfather?” He raises his eyebrow with caution. “A doctor?”
I lean in conspiratorially. “Truth? He’s currently sporting the title of my ex-boyfriend. But they’re due to get married this summer, so that will change.”
“ Um .” He raises a finger in the air, then lowers it and closes his mouth.
“You don’t have to say anything. What is there to say anyway?” I shift, feeling it in the conversation as well. “Are you hungry?”
“Grapes aren’t going to satisfy me.”
“What will? What are you craving?”
A barely audible vibration rumbles around his chest. When his gaze locks onto mine, the carnal and raw look in his eyes causes me to squirm.
I turn to the fridge, making sure the cool air hits my face. Needing something to talk about that has nothing to do with the way he’s staring at me like the next meal, I pivot and ask, “Do you travel a lot, or are you locked away in some office sixty hours a week?”
Dammit . Now I’m imagining him in a well-tailored suit. Seeing him in that would absolutely do me in. I’m sure it does all the women, but considering how amazing he looks in jeans and a T-shirt, I think I’d have a low survival rate. “Let me guess. You’re a venture capitalist or in finance? Makes sense since you’re tall. Six-two—”
“Six-three.”
Blue eyes stare back at me, and that jaw doesn’t waste a moment to harden and then tense. I feel like we just hit a wall, but I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. He doesn’t seem anxious to answer my last question, but I’m curious why he’s so hush-hush about it.
Coming around me, he opens the refrigerator and bends down to inspect the contents. He glances at me. “What are we thinking?”
And now, we’re onto the next topic.
It’s probably for the best. We’re getting too close under the circumstances. Tomorrow brings not only the sun, which will melt the snow, but also me heading out to the mechanic. It’s probably best if we keep things light.
Though it’s getting harder, considering how attractive I find this man. Who knew my type was grumpy, flashing between impatience and seeming to know everything to sky-high confidence that levels me under his sex appeal? I should add frustrating, but that’s not applicable anymore.
I find his brain as sexy as his body. He gives as good as I throw in his direction, which I like. Though, judgy judgertons might tell me I shouldn’t. I don’t need anyone to bow down to me. I just want someone who loves me to the core of my being. Too much to ask?
“I get someone wanting privacy, but most of my clients I can find online anyway. I’d rather hear it from you.” I ask, “So are you really not going to tell me what you do for a living? ”
“I’ve not had the luxury of living in a long time. What about you?”
“That’s not fair to flip on me,” I reply. “I can learn everything about you online or you can tell me.”
He reaches into the fridge. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart. You will be reading lies.”
“Calling me sweetheart on the job is not how it works either, but here we are.”
Setting a carton of eggs on the counter, he stops, oh so close to me, so much so that he’s looking down, and says, “Yes, here we are.”
I’m fairly certain my boss shouldn’t make my heart race like it’s competing in the Kentucky Derby or cause my knees to weaken from a shared glance. No other boss has affected me like this, though many have tried.
I hop up on the counter by the sink and watch as he dips his head back into the fridge. I can still feel the heat emanating from this hottie from over here. And it’s nice to study him from a distance. He isn’t wearing a wedding ring, but there’s no way this guy is walking around single. Grumpy or not, he’s more than my type. A soul that’s been shattered, which only makes me wish I could heal him, yet smile-inducing funny, charismatic when he's comfortable around you, built like a professional athlete, and gorgeous. Basically, he’s everyone’s type of man.
I’m sure he has some model-caliber girlfriend, maybe even a beautiful actress since he’s from Southern California.
I don’t have trouble getting asked out on dates, but I struggle to connect with anyone. I’m so surprised it’s been so easy with him. He’s shown me his wounds, his heart, his sorrows, and shared his laughter. I’m drawn to him on such an emotionally stimulating level that I should probably be more nervous. I’m not .
Also, he’s incredibly attractive.
My gaze follows where I know his extraordinary abs are higher to his broad chest and shoulders, which could hold someone good and tight to that jaw that’s had another dusting of scruff added overnight. Those lips that lick as if I commanded them to and those striking eyes.
“What are you doing, Poppy?” Oops. Caught in the act.
Do I tell him? My cheeks flame with that same heat he’s projecting.
Do I tell him I’m a horrible person for ogling him like he is nothing more than a sexy piece of man meat and that I haven’t been with anyone in so long that I’m worried I won’t ever have an orgasm again?
Or is that too much information?
It's probably too much, especially for my boss to hear.
I’m not familiar with the notion of being immediately attracted to someone, but he’s not like anyone I’ve ever known. Laird is what dreams are made of.
“What do you mean?” Resting back, I stick out my chest, thinking it’s only fair as I feign innocence. I miss the counter, and my hand slips into the sink, sending me sideways.
Feeling my head cradled in his large hand, I release my eyes that I was squeezing shut and open them again. Pushing off the stainless-steel sink, I slowly lift my head.
“Are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “What happened?”
“Missed the counter, but yeah, I’m good. I’m fine. Great catch.” Humiliated down to my bones, I rattle on, “Did you play football in high school—”
“And college.”
“Yep,” I say, pushing my messy hair away from my face. “ That tracks.” I wave my hand up and down in front of him, not knowing what else to do and hoping to befuddle him from how embarrassing that was. “I mean, look at you. You’re big—” His smirk chokes my next words in my throat. I’ve said too much. “You get the picture. I’m sure it’s not the first time you saved someone from hitting their head on a kitchen faucet.”
“It is actually.”
“Well, I’m sure it happens every day . . . in other amazing cabins across the mountains and near lakes. The number one place to sustain an injury is in the bathtub. I bet faucets fall right after that.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s amused with that stupidly attractive grin sitting squarely on his face. “I’m sure it does. Happens all the time.”
“See? You agree.” I need to shut up, knowing I’m making it five times more excruciating for myself. I hang my head, rubbing my forehead. “Please make me stop.”
I’m sure the woman he’s dating never goes on rants about home injuries. I bet she says everything perfect, like she is.
Tucking two fingers under my chin, he lifts until my eyes meet his. Is this when he tells me to go? To pack my bags and leave before sundown? “I think it’s kind of cute, so I’m not sure I want you to stop.” Nope. Guess this is where he tells me I’m adorable. I’ll take adorable. It beats some other names I’ve been called.
“You think I’m cute?”
His eyes give my mouth a once-over before rising and smiling. “Yep.”
Turning toward the island, he starts fondling the eggs while staring at them like they’ve turned against him. I’m beaming like a fool because this man thinks I’m cute. Like confirmed it to my face, which is apparently cute to him.
Sure, I can see regret rolling up his neck in the form of a pale embarrassment, but I’m not pretending this didn’t happen like the foot touches earlier. Just before I have a chance to do what the fondling of the eggs even couldn’t—make it awkward—he grabs a pan from the drawer. “I need to eat. I’m fucking starved. Do you like omelets?”
I think my eyebrows shoot through the roof when my eyes widen. “I love them.”
“Egg white or the good kind?”
I burst out laughing. “That’s the choice? Call me crazy, but I’m good with either. Fortunately for my profession, I’m not a picky eater.”
His gaze lengthens into me, making me feel all kinds of things—from uncertain if he really thinks I’m crazy to maybe he’s actually attracted to me. Clearly, I’m as confused as he is. He finally puts me out of my uncomfortable misery. “I really don’t know what to say sometimes.”
Since we’re getting back to having fun, I decide now would be the perfect time to push another button. “Does that happen often?”
He taps my nose. “Only with you. Now,” he says, “back to the omelet.”
As if I could survive the cuteness of him tapping my nose, he carries on like it never happened. “Not sure if we have ham, but I do like a Denver omelet.” Peeking over at me, he asks, “What about you?”
I really shouldn’t have liked a boop on the nose as much as I did? Should I? “Is this a test? I love them. And yes, there’s ham in the back.” I hop off the counter and go to the fridge, but he blocks me. “I got it. You just sit tight. ”
“What do you mean sit tight?” I laugh. “Are you going to cook for me?”
Shrugging it off like it’s not the most amazing gesture for a chef to have another person cook for them, he says, “We need to eat.”
“Sure but isn’t that why I’m here?” I’m so confused.
“To eat?”
That’s twice he’s managed to make my eyes the size of dish saucers. “This is the test, isn’t it?”
Chuckling, he replies, “Not a test, Poppy.” Gah! The way he says my name is pure sex.
I take a breath and slowly exhale. “I guess I assumed I would be cooking.”
“Why would you think that?” He turns on the gas stove, the clicking momentarily drawing both of our attention until the fire catches.
“Umm . . .” Tilting my head, I try to reason my brain to the same wavelength as his regarding the topic.
“Let me phrase this a different way. Why would I make you cook?” He looks right at me, then rests his hand on the counter in expectation.
I slow blink a few times before diving into the bafflement of this conversation. “I guess it was an easy mistake to make since the contract states it, the non-disclosure also mentioned no-contact while cooking, the grocery money I was sent, and the week’s plan I put together making sure to respect the dietary restrictions and requests of the client.” Cupping my hand to the side of my mouth, I whisper, “The client being you.”
“Wait a minute.” Pointing at me in disbelief, he asks, “You mean to tell me you’re the cook?”
“Chef, actually, and preparing meals falls under my typical duties.” I’d move out of his personal space, but I consider the finger a welcome invasion in mine, so I stay right where I’m standing. “Why else did you think I was here?” I throw my hands up. “ Wait. Wait. Wait. Me hovering around the kitchen, or having my own knives, or even me cracking terrible food jokes didn’t give it away?”
After a slow shrug, he laughs. “I thought it was a hobby, and you were being nice.”
Flailing my arms to clear the air between us, I ask, “Okay, let’s roll back in time.” I need more space to riddle my way through this puzzle, but I point at the stove anyway. “I literally cooked for you last night.”
“Good point.”
I rub my temple, unable to find the energy to keep up with this exchange, but I’m still too curious to let it go. “If you didn’t think I was the chef, who did you think I was?”
Pulling a glass from the cabinet, he tugs open the fridge for the pitcher of cold water I filled yesterday . . . as part of my job . “A stalker.”
He never ceases to amaze me, but I don’t have the words to delve into that, so I shake my head instead and ask, “Sharp or mild cheddar?”
He leans against the counter, looking all smug as if it’s all come full circle. With a grin potent enough to get me pregnant, he says, “I never knew you were a chef. That makes sense.”
I bask in his sunshine, the warmth in his eyes better than the first day of summer growing up. And then I make breakfast for the two of us.