Chapter 9
2 YEARS AGO
Liam Harley is so hot .
I can’t remember ever having a thing for red-headed men, but how will I ever recover? The beard? The man bun? The way his shirt strains over his biceps? I want to stare into those sad green eyes all night long. He might have a bit of a grump factor, or at least he did when we first met, but even his stilted answers to my questions drip with honesty and thoughtfulness. And when he talks about his daughter? Just kill me now.
I know I should call it a night after the second drink. I know I’m still recovering from my break-up with Greg. I know I shouldn’t fall so hard for men as soon as I meet them. I know all of this, and yet…
“What about a cooking lesson?” I interrupt as he talks about what it was like opening Gairdín.
“A lesson?”
“My apartment’s only a few blocks from here. I have a beautiful kitchen that never gets used.” I toss the words out, hoping my forwardness doesn’t turn him off. I’ve seen the way he looks at me. I know there’s a mutual attraction here.
He leans forward, close enough for the scent of whiskey on his breath to envelop me. “I don’t share my recipes.” His words are rough, taunting. “But if you want me to feed you, just ask.”
Holy hell. I’ve never asked for a check faster in my life.
Getting swept up in a new romance is kind of my thing. Ellie calls it my fairytale glasses. I always envision this perfect future every time I start dating someone new. I get blinded by it, never seeing the copious amount of red flags.
I can’t help it. I love love.
But all that my eyes see tonight is a very sexy Liam Harley in my bed. I am lust-drunk.
Screw the fairytale.
Give me one night with the hot chef.
Well, one hot night and then maybe we take his adorable daughter to the park on a gorgeous autumn day and have a picnic and fall madly in love and…
No. I will not let myself get swept up. Hot chef. Hot sex. That’s it.
Maybe.
Liam directs us back across the street to his restaurant so he can grab a few things from the kitchen. The cooking lesson was just a thinly veiled excuse to take him home with me, but I won’t be disappointed if he takes it seriously. I would eat anything that man makes.
“I’ll assume you have a sauté pan at home?” he asks with a raised brow.
I’m not completely sure I do but nod anyway, anticipation lacing up my spine.
He starts to fill a bag with ingredients, like, a lot of ingredients. It hits me for a second that he is absolutely planning to cook for me. Is it possible he thinks my invitation is just part of the blog post? Have I misread the signals? I wish I could call Ellie right now and run her through every word spoken tonight to get her opinion.
“Liam?” I grab his attention as he’s pulling a few sprigs of some herb I’m unfamiliar with. “Just in case it wasn’t clear, I got everything I need for the post. I’m…off the clock.” I blow out a breath, praying that sounded more sexy and less idiotic than it did in my head.
He sets down the bag after shoving the herbs inside and strides over to me. His eyes do this funny dance while his jaw pops. And suddenly his hand is around my neck, deft fingers pressing against my throat. His thumb pushes up until his entire hand is cupping my jaw, forcing us to make eye contact.
“Noted.”
God, how does he do it? How did that one word make my knees go weak? I let out a deep, shaky breath, trying my best to keep my composure, but I can’t stop my body from shivering.
“Cold?” he asks, his hand still gripping me.
“A little.” It’s chilly in here, surrounded by blast chillers and walk-in freezers. Not that it matters. I’m pretty sure he’d have me shaking on a balmy summer day.
He drops his hold on me and walks into a small office connected to the kitchen. Grabbing a sweatshirt from the back of the chair at his desk, he comes back and offers it to me.
It’s soft. So soft I just know it’s one of those pieces of clothing he’s had for decades. And it smells like an enchanted forest. Fresh herbs, a little smoke, some unidentifiable magic sprinkled in.
He notices me inhaling. Cocks his head. Licks his lips.
“Ready to go?”
I fumble with my keys. Amateur .
Liam, smooth as ever, takes them from my hands to let us in.
Why am I so nervous around this guy? It’s been a while since I’ve really dated, but I’m pretty sure I remember life before Greg. But the guys in college were not Liam-level hot. They weren’t award winning chefs with a—is that a knife tattoo?
I gulp. I think he sees it. Get a grip, Maya .
“Your place is amazing,” he says, saving me from any further spiral. He sets down the collection of food on the kitchen island and does a little spin, checking out the apartment.
“It’s technically my parents’ place. None of us live in New York full-time—well, until recently, for me—so we sort of share it. It’s weird, I know.”
I always hate explaining anything about my family. All the different properties, the constant travel, the galas, and private jets. I can’t even complain without sounding like an entitled heiress. But having seven penthouses doesn’t interest me.
All I’ve ever wanted was one home .
“You’re lucky. It took me forever to find a place in the city. Not a lot of these apartments are kid-friendly.”
“Oh, didn’t anyone tell you? You’re supposed to move to Brooklyn when you reproduce.”
He laughs and I feel like I just won a prize. All those hard edges have been softening throughout the night, little by little, and I can’t help but beam with pride that I have that effect on him.
“I’ll never leave the city,” he says. “Everything else feels too slow for me. I’m just learning how to make it work.”
He starts moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. I guess to him, it is. I’m not sure I’ve ever used anything but the microwave and coffee machine.
I let myself rest on one of the stools while I watch him. “I love the city too. It’s always in motion. Sometimes I feel like I can never catch my breath.”
“And that’s a good thing?” he asks.
“I like being busy. At least when I’m on my own. My best friend doesn’t live too far away. When I need to relax, that’s where I’ll go.”
A minor white lie. Being a homebody is kind of my life goal.
I’ve been itching to see Ellie ever since I moved to New York. If I’m being honest, the breakup with Greg felt a lot easier knowing nothing was keeping me in California. When Ellie left San Francisco for Sugar Valley, she took a huge piece of me with her.
One more week and I’ll be in Vermont with her for the final fitting of her wedding dress. I actually have a countdown timer on my phone.
I bounce off the stool and ask if I can help with the cooking. He actually makes it look fun, and this is supposed to be a lesson, right?
“Can you be trusted with knives?” he asks.
Honestly? Probably not. But I make a quick salute with my hand. “Yes, chef.”
He eyes me with heavy skepticism but hands me a bunch of herbs and a large knife. “Chop.”
His eyes never leave me, his arms folded across his chest like he can’t wait for the show. I line up the sprigs of…something and begin to cut.
“Nope. Not like that.” He grabs the knife and, to my delight, steps behind me, bracketing me against the counter with his arms. I feel like I’m getting a golf lesson, but it’s past midnight in my kitchen which makes this all the more sexy. “First, we pull the tarragon from the stem.” He’s holding my hand that’s holding the tarragon , apparently, and starts to pull at each little tiny leaf until there’s a pile on the cutting board. I decide not to remind him that his only instruction was “chop.”
“Now bunch them together,” he continues, still using my own hands under his. “Then we cut. Left hand on top of the knife. No accidents in my kitchen.”
“But it’s my kitchen,” I murmur. I turn my head just enough until I meet the underside of his jaw.
“And I promised I wouldn’t hurt you.” He looks down, his green gaze meeting mine. “That includes not letting you hurt yourself.”
We continue to chop the herbs but our hearts aren’t in it. The movements get slower and slower as my pulse picks up. He moves closer behind me until every inch of our bodies connect.
His hands leave mine and travel up my arms, a featherlight graze of his knuckles. Goosebumps spread across my body as he grabs a handful of my curls and tucks them over one shoulder.
God, he’s good at this. My heart is hammering against my chest, anticipation leaking from my bones. What will he do next?
Before the question is even complete in my mind, his lips land on my shoulder. I try and fail to keep my breathing steady as he trails kisses along my skin, following a path up my neck. I can’t even stop the moan that escapes me.
“You like this?” he asks, a whisper beneath my ear.
“Yes.” Probably more than I should. But I can’t remember the last time a man kissed me with this much intention. Like having his lips on me is the only thing he’s ever wanted.
His tongue laps at my skin causing my knees to buckle, but his left arm comes down to squeeze my hip, holding me in place.
“Do me a favor, gorgeous. Let go of that knife.”
I didn’t realize I was still holding on to it, with a white-knuckled grip nonetheless. Shit.
It drops from my hand so suddenly that he laughs, the sound vibrating against my throat.
He reaches for my jaw and turns me toward him, his lips catching mine like they have a whole lot to say. It’s a slow kiss, demanding, the kind I feel across every inch of my body.
He kisses me like he’s mad that it’s the first time.
“Fuck, Maya,” he says, pausing with just a breath between us. “You taste good enough to put on the menu.”
Is that the best compliment I’ve ever received?
I can’t think of any decent retort, so I place my hands on his chest and shove him away, creating just enough space for me to bend and grab the hem of my dress. I slip it over my head and toss it on the floor beside us.
I have never been prouder of myself for wearing the good lingerie on a solo date. It was only meant to give me confidence on a night out all alone, to remind me that I don’t need a man to feel sexy.
But I have never felt sexier than right now, seeing the way Liam stares at me, those emerald eyes blazing with heat.
“What do you want, Maya?” A simple enough question, but his gruff tone promises something explicit.
“What do you want, Chef Harley?”
He bites his lip. Braces himself on the counter with a fist stacked on each side of me. He leans in to whisper in my ear. “I just want to feel you.”
He drops one hand to my thigh and drags his knuckles up, up until he reaches the lacy black thong. His fingers tug on the fabric, dip below it, stroke me. I gasp.
He dips further into the wetness that is entirely his doing, makes a sound from deep in his throat that has me arching into him. He kisses my mouth hard, letting his tongue match the rhythm of his fingers.
“And then I want to feed you.”