25. Saint
TWENTY-FIVE
SAINT
He nearly drops his tongs. “Chef?”
“You heard me.”
“But we’ve got three eight-tops coming in fifteen minutes.”
“Did I fucking stutter?”
Eddie’s mouth snaps shut. The entire line falls silent, pretending to be fascinated by their stations while exchanging glances with each other.
I never leave early. Not unless Ivy’s sick or there’s an emergency. And I sure as hell don’t leave during Friday service.
“Yes, Chef,” Eddie says.
I grab my keys from the office, ignoring the weight of their stares. Let them talk. Let them wonder why their head chef is abandoning ship for the first time in three years.
The drive home takes twelve minutes. I make it in eight.
My personal kitchen is too quiet after the cacophony of service. I should feel guilty about leaving Eddie in charge, but all I can think about is the way Wrenley looked at me this afternoon, lips shining, making those sounds over my fucking pasta.
Everything’s already prepped. I did it this morning before Ivy woke up, telling myself I was just being efficient, not that I’d been planning this since the moment my eyes popped open at dawn, before I’d even asked Wrenley.
Ingredients lined up on the marble island. Knives honed to surgical sharpness. A Barolo breathing on the counter that costs more than most people’s car payments.
8:57.
Through the kitchen window, I catch the sweep of headlights.
She parks crooked, then has to reverse and try again. I watch her check her reflection in the rearview mirror three times before getting out.
When I open the door, she’s holding a bottle of wine and looking everywhere but at me.
“Hi,” she says.
“You brought wine.”
“Seemed rude not to.” She finally settles on my face. “Plus, I wasn’t sure if this was a social visit or if you were going to lecture me about pasta water again.”
“Depends. You still think pasta goes in cold water?”
“I think pasta goes wherever you tell me to put it.”
The corners of my lips twitch. “Good girl.”
I take her coat, allowing my fingers to brush her shoulders. “Nice choice on the wine.”
“The guy at the store helped. I told him I needed something for dinner with a chef who would throw a fit at the wrong wine pairing. ”
I cock a brow, utterly insulted. “I don’t throw fits. I have justified reactions to incompetence.”
She laughs, and the sound tips my heart sideways. I want to taste that laughter to see if it’s as bright on my tongue as it is in the air.
Wrenley toes off her boots and follows me into the kitchen, stopping short when she notices the island set up with ingredients. “What’s all this?”
“Your education.” I put her bottle of wine to the side and pour her a glass of the Barolo. “We’re making risotto.”
“We?”
“You. I’m supervising.”
Her facial muscles do a complicated dance as she mulls this over. “You want me to cook for you.”
“I do.”
She surveys the mis en place , then me. “I have zero idea how to make risotto.”
“Good. We’ll start from zero. Apron.” I toss her a spare from the hook by the pantry. She catches it, tying it around her waist with the kind of confidence that makes me want to see her in nothing but that.
She reads my mind, grinning. “You have that look. Like you’re about to criticize my knife skills and then bend me over the prep table.”
“Only if you’re lucky.”
Her cheeks color, but she holds my gaze.
And to my insane delight, she unties the apron and begins peeling off her clothes underneath.
My hand freezes on the wineglass, watching as she pulls her sweater over her head.
She’s not wearing a bra, just a thin camisole that clings to her curves like a second skin.
The kitchen light catches on the lines marking her shoulders, thin white scars forming a crosshatch pattern along one side of her collarbone.
They gleam like silver threads, some older and faded to white, while others are newer with the faintest blush of pink.
They tell a story I’ve heard in fragments, one I wish I could erase.
I’ve seen them before, kissed them multiple times, and traced them with my tongue, but the sight of them always awakens the beast nestled inside me. Knowing she did this to herself, that she carved her pain into her own flesh when there was no one to protect her, makes my throat constrict.
I’d like to find every person who made her feel this was necessary. Her attacker, the police, the commenters, and the detective who suggested she invited it, and tear them apart with my bare hands.
Wrenley’s eyes flick down to where my attention is fixed, then back to my face. She doesn’t cover her scars or look away. Rather, she lowers the straps and slips out of the camisole, too.
Silence turns out to be a hidden talent of mine, because I’m able to remain still and quiet as she takes off her pants and underwear, then re-ties the apron, covering just enough to make me want to tear it off with my teeth.
I stay exactly where I am, a predator’s reaction to unexpected movement.
Her voice in that video swirls inside my skull, hoarse and shredded. When I can’t breathe, I dig my nails in until skin splits. That’s from reading comments about how I should be grateful he didn’t do worse…
The memory makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth might crack. Wrenley’s standing before me now, vulnerable and brave in nothing but my kitchen apron, and I’ll stop at nothing to build walls around her so no one can hurt her again .
“You’re staring again,” she says quietly.
I force myself to exhale. “I’m appreciating.”
“Appreciating what, exactly?” Wrenley adjusts her apron strings.
I set down my wineglass and circle the island, keeping a deliberate distance. “Your courage.”
A half smile plays on her lips. “This isn’t courage. It’s impatience. I really want you to fuck me again.”
“Is that right?” I reach for the olive oil, pouring a shallow pool into the pan without taking my eyes off her. “Hands.”
She extends them, palms up, just like a kid doing as she’s told.
I take them in mine, positioning her fingers around the wooden spoon, and she moans in disappointment.
“First rule of risotto: constant motion.” I guide her hand to the pan, standing close enough that she can feel my breath on her neck but not touching her anywhere else. “Like this.”
The burner ignites with a soft whoosh. I place the pan over the flame and add a knob of butter, watching it melt and bubble alongside the oil, then reach around her to add minced shallots. “Stir until translucent.”
Wrenley obeys, the wooden spoon making lazy circles. The kitchen fills with the sweet, sharp scent similar to garlic, onions, and butter.
“Stir from the center,” I instruct, purposely keeping my body just far enough away that she can feel my body heat, but not my touch.
Her shoulders tense as she concentrates, the muscles in her back shifting under smooth skin where the apron ties leave most of it exposed. A flush creeps up her neck.
“Am I doing it right?” she asks, her voice pitched lower than normal.
“Slower,” I murmur near her ear. “Cooking isn’t a race. ”
She shivers.
“Now the rice.”
My arm brushes against her bare side when I reach for the Arborio rice, and she gives a sharp inhale.
“Keep stirring,” I remind her. “The rice needs to be coated in fat before we add any liquid.”
“Coated in fat,” she repeats, a hint of a smirk playing at her lips. “Sounds filthy.”
“Cooking can get dirty.” I allow my chest to press against her back for just a moment before retreating. “It’s about heat and moisture and knowing when something’s ready to be devoured.”
Her breath catches. The wooden spoon falters in its circles.
“Don’t stop,” I warn.
Wrenley nods, leaning back so she’s pressed against my chest. I step away, denying her the contact.
She follows my retreat with a frown. “You know, most men would be a little more enthusiastic about a naked woman in their kitchen.”
I stare at her, really focus on her without blinking so she knows exactly what I plan to do to her, while I pour a measured splash of wine into the pan, watching it sizzle and evaporate. “My kitchen. My rules.”
Wrenley bites her lip, reading my intent flawlessly, and shifts her weight, the apron sliding against her breasts in a way that makes my cock throb.
I correct her grip on the spoon. She tries to lean into me, but I move away, letting her chase the scent of my skin and the scrape of my voice instead.
She’s trembling and furious about it, and I’m fucking obsessed with it.
I say, “You’re too tense. Loosen your wrist,” and she does, but not before shooting me a look that’s all challenge .
I correct her again. “You’re doing it wrong.”
Then I brush her hip, just barely, a reward for good behavior. She flushes, then smirks, then flushes deeper when she realizes she’s playing right into my hands.
I make her stir and stir until her arms ache and the air between us is thick enough to scrape with a knife. I let her sweat it out. The kitchen is a crucible, and I want her melted by the time I’m done.
She tries to needle me. “You know, I could just take the apron off and?—”
“Keep stirring.”
Her eyes flick up, golden and furious and wanting. She wants me to break, wants me to lose the control I’ve spent years perfecting.
Fine. I let her think she’s getting close.
I move in, pinning her between the island and my body, but I don’t touch her anywhere except the back of her hand, guiding it in slow, torturous circles.
The silence spools out, punctuated only by the scrape of spoon on steel and the tiny, involuntary sounds that slip from her lips every time my hand covers hers.
She’s about to crack, but I want the tension to distill until she’s blinking back tears, not sure if it’s the onions or the fact that I haven’t even kissed her yet.
She tries to break it.
“What happens if I let go?”
I lean in, breath grazing the shell of her ear. “Then I’ll have to take over. Is that what you want?”