Chapter 3
FREYA
“Oh my gosh,” I breathe the second Cole’s bedroom door closes.
My fingers grip the counter until my knuckles are white, and I hang my head for a moment and focus on my breathing.
You’re just cooking, Freya. Just like you do every night.
He’ll love it. You’ve got this.
With a firm nod, I get back to it.
Salmon with a soy and honey glaze, potatoes and greens, with a rainbow side salad, loaded with beans, seeds and dried fruit.
It’s nothing complicated, but still, the pressure is on.
My stomach is a messy knot of anxiety as I overthink every single step of a recipe I’ve made more times than I can count.
It’s one of Mom and Dad’s favorites. It has to be a winner with Cole as well, right?
If he doesn’t like it, he could change his mind and rescind the job offer.
As nervous as I am about embarking on this, I want it.
It offers me the focus and challenge I’ve been craving since I returned home.
I’ve spent so long wallowing, lost and confused, reliving every second of the last few years of my life, trying to pinpoint the moment it all went wrong.
This is the perfect way for me to put my mind to something, to forget about him and what he’s doing and start my life over.
The apartment’s silence is deafening, but I second-guess putting some music on my cell or attempting to wake Cole’s smart speaker up. Instead, I’m forced to lose myself in my own overthinking as I work.
Thankfully, only fifteen minutes later, footsteps pad closer, and when I turn around, I find Cole retaking his previous position; only this time, his hair is still wet from the shower, and he’s changed into a worn T-shirt and I can only assume—or hope—a pair of sweatpants.
If I didn’t feel overdressed before, I really do now.
I turn my attention back to the food and try to put the image of him sitting there, looking entirely too attractive in his own home, out of my head.
“Whatever you’re doing smells incredible,” he tells me.
“I hope it tastes as good as it smells.”
“I have no doubt,” he says confidently. He allows me to work in silence again, only this time, my body is burning up with his attention. Each of my actions is considered for fear of cutting myself or walking into another cupboard door.
The dull headache has gone now, but I don’t doubt that the spot I hit will be sore to the touch.
I put the salmon into the oven with the potatoes and finally turn around to look at him.
Nerves zip through me as our eyes meet.
He’s so…and I’m…
God. This is only day one. What is he doing to me?
“I guess we should figure out how this is going to work then, huh?”
I rest back against the counter, my fingers curled around it once again.
“Yeah, I guess we should,” I agree, aware that I’ve dived into this a little blindly.
“When I’m home, I’ll be looking for two meals a day—generally breakfast and dinner, plus snacks and shakes for throughout the day, seeing as I usually eat lunch at the arena.
Game days are different. Despite what I said earlier, I am happy to warm food up.
I don’t expect you to be here first thing every morning and for dinner each night. ”
“It’s fine. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
He shakes his head. “I have no intention of taking over your life, Freya. I may not be able to cook, but I have managed to survive this long just fine.”
“Your next game is Friday, right?”
A proud smile twitches at his lips. “That’s right.”
“Okay, so breakfast and dinner for the next three days. Then can you talk me through your game day schedule? Do you have any rituals I need to know about?”
He smirks. “You have been doing your research.”
“My dad is a huge Vipers’ fan. I’ve picked things up over the years.”
“So you haven’t Googled me?”
Panic engulfs me.
I have. I have totally Googled him. But, honestly, I didn’t find anything more than a whole host of photographs with beautiful women on his arm and his stats—neither of which was what I was really looking for.
I wanted to learn more about Cole, the man, not Handsy, the player, but there doesn’t seem to be much about him online.
I study the man himself, and the nagging urge to find out more about him only gets worse. If I learned anything from my online stalking, it’s that he keeps his private life just that: private.
“Okay, fine. I may have Googled you a little bit,” I confess.
“Knew it.” My eyes roll before I can stop them, and I instantly regret it. Men like Cole don’t like women acting like that. Thankfully, his only reaction is his growing smirk. “And did you learn anything?”
“You prefer blondes,” I state, remembering the theme amongst the women he seems to spend time with.
He tuts. “Not necessarily. I’m an equal opportunity kind of man. I don’t believe that blondes have more fun.”
“What about strawberry blondes?” I ask, holding up a wavy lock of my light hair.
“I’ll let you know in a few weeks.”
Something warm and unfamiliar descends through my body.
Is he…is he flirting?
No.
I almost laugh at my stupid thoughts. Of course this incredibly hot, can-have-anyone-he-wants hockey player isn’t flirting with the woman he’s just hired as his personal cook.
“I can already tell you there’s not a lot of fun happening over here.”
“We’re all allowed blips, Freya. It doesn’t mean it’s always going to be that way.”
I study him for a beat. “I’m not the only one who’s been doing some stalking, am I?”
“I’m inviting you into my home. I needed to know a few things before allowing that to happen.”
“That’s fair. So can I assume that Casey didn’t scare you off with all the skeletons in my closet?”
“She had nothing but good things to say. I’m still trying to work out how much you paid her for that.”
I gasp in faux horror. “I would never.”
He chuckles, and the smile on his face makes my own grow.
Cole might be this larger-than-life hockey goalie, but there's so much more to him than that, and I can’t help but feel like I might be getting glimpses of him that no one else does.
Behind me, the bubbling of water starts, and I turn around to put the greens in to cook. Remembering where the plates are, I grab one, and as my alarm goes off on my cell, I pull the baking tray out and check the salmon.
It’s perfect. Internally, I do a little happy dance that dish one is going to be a success.
I plate it all up and drizzle my sticky sauce over the fish before turning around and placing it before Cole.
“This looks incredible,” he muses, his eyes locked on the food. He looks about two seconds away from drooling. “Freya, you’re perfect. Honestly.”
“You haven’t tried it yet. I might have laced it with something.” I gasp the second I hear the words rolling off my tongue. “Oh my god, that is not…I haven’t…flipping hell, I don’t know why I said that. I’m so sorry.” Spinning around, I grab a fork. “I’ll eat some to prove I haven’t. I—”
“Freya, stop, please.”
His eyes hold mine, urging me to chill the hell out.
I take a breath, and so does he, silently demanding.
“I’m not worried for a second that you’ve poisoned it,” he tells me calmly.
“Or you weren’t before I mentioned it.”
He studies me closely. I have no idea what he’s looking for, and I have even less of a clue if he finds it, but eventually, he turns his attention back to his meal.
I wait with bated breath as he lifts his fork and pushes the prongs into the fish. It crumbles, and I let out a relieved sigh. I knew it would, I tested it, but even still.
He pulls a small piece away and lifts it to his lips. But before he tastes it, he looks at me again, a frown pinching his brows.
“Where’s yours?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.
“Where’s your plate?”
My heart slams against my ribs as a sick feeling sloshes in my stomach at the thought of doing something wrong. “I made you dinner, Cole. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” I ask, my voice weak.
“Yeah, but you can make it for yourself, too.”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish.
“If you’re here, I’d rather you eat too than go hungry.”
“I’m…I’m not hungry.” It’s a lie. I haven’t been able to eat all day; I’ve been so nervous about this. But now surrounded by the sweet scent of his dinner, I can’t say that my stomach isn’t grumbling. “I can get something on the way home; it’s no big deal.”
“It is,” he states, his voice leaving no room for argument as he slides from the stool and marches toward the cupboard.
I watch motionlessly as he pulls a second plate down and loads it with the leftover potatoes and greens. Then, he saunters back to the counter and lifts one of the fillets from his own plate and places it on mine.
“There,” he says, sliding it in front of the stool beside him. “You just need to grab some cutlery.”
I don’t move. I can’t.
“There is wine in the fridge if you’d like some. White with fish, right?”
“Um…yeah,” I mumble, barely able to gather my thoughts. “Would you like a glass?”
“Usually, I’d say no. But tonight, we’re celebrating.”
“Are we?”
His smirk returns. “I’d like to think so. You have a new job. That’s worthy of raising a glass, is it not?”
“We need to talk about the salary.”
“Okay, well, grab a bottle and two glasses and we can do that over dinner.”
I do as instructed, and soon after, I hop up onto the stool Cole has pulled out for me.
“To my new chef,” he says, holding his wineglass up.
I exhale, trying to settle myself. Honestly, the last thing I need right now is alcohol. But there is no way I can say no to this man, especially after seeing the labels on the wine. He has outstanding taste.
Lifting my glass, I tap it against his.
“You need to reduce the salary,” I blurt before I’ve even taken a sip. “What you offered before was outrageous for someone with no experience. Hell, it was a lot even for someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Cole takes a sip of his wine before he finally lifts his abandoned piece of fish to his mouth.
The second he closes his lips around his fork, he groans, and his eyes shutter.
Okay, that’s a good sign.
I’m powerless but to watch as he chews and then finally swallows.
I swear the seconds turn to hours as I wait for his feedback. I fidget impatiently with the hem of the dress I borrowed from Mom’s wardrobe this morning after freaking out about not having anything suitable for this meeting.
“Freya,” he finally says, “I’m not paying for experience. I’m paying for you. And if you told me you wanted double, I’d give it to you.”
“Why?”
“Because of your cookies,” he deadpans before spearing a green bean and popping it into his mouth.
I bark a laugh. “No cookies are worth that.”
“Then you clearly haven’t eaten any of yours.
Listen,” he says, lowering his cutlery and turning his attention fully on me once more.
“I know this all might feel crazy, but I have a good feeling about it. I like to think that my gut usually steers me in the right direction, and right now, it’s telling me that I need more of your food inside it. ”
I giggle. The sound is high-pitched and embarrassing. But his words mean more to me than any I’ve heard in a very long time.
“I would love for you to be my chef—”
“But I’m not—”
“To me you are. Freya, I would be honored if you would consider the position of being my personal chef. I can’t promise that I’ll always be easy to work with—I can get grumpy, and when I’m stressed, I close myself off from everyone and hide.
But I’d like to think the benefits that come with this role will overshadow the downsides. ”
I stare at him. I can’t help but feel like I just won the lottery—which is bizarre, because I never play it.
This is the second time in my life that I’ve been offered something that seems far too good to be true.
You’d think I’d have learned from the first time and the broken heart that came with it.
Apparently not.
Because before I’m aware of it, the words, “I’d be honored to be your chef,” fall from my lips. “Which is good, because it seems I’ve already started.”