Chapter Nineteen
CASH
GETTING CAUGHT NAKED in by a couple of matchmakers wasn’t part of today’s agenda.
But it happened.
And damned if they didn’t look pretty fucking pleased about it.
By noon, the kitchen smells like garlic popping in hot oil and bright citrus zest in the air. Grilled garlic chicken with roasted veggies is on the menu.
“Crushing it as always, ladies.”
Normally, this is the part of the day where I stop thinking about everything else. I move through the motions on autopilot, knife thudding, pans hissing, muscle memory taking over.
Not today.
Today, I have to concentrate on not looking at her.
The way her shirt keeps slipping off one shoulder.
Her loose hair is tucked behind her ears.
Her nose wrinkling in the cutest way as she focuses, because she has no idea what she’s doing.
And I’m beginning to realize that my instructions aren't helping. But I’m not inviting her to the front again. I wouldn’t be able to last the whole class without hauling her over my shoulder and carrying her to the bedroom to have my way with her.
“Your chicken has the perfect grill marks.” I move between the tables.
Heat from the portable burners. Smoke clings to my shirt.
“The seasoning on the chicken is spot-on.”
Then I’m at her table. I check the food first, or else I know I won’t be able to tear my eyes off her.
The chicken looks bland, like she hasn’t seasoned it. She flips it over. Pale. Sad. There’s barely a glimmer of salt.
Our eyes meet.
She smiles, her eyebrows knitting together. “Crushing it?” She’s using my words, and I love it when she gets sassy like this. “Seasoning spot-on?”
I bite back my smile so hard my jaw hurts. “Did you season it at all?”
“I think so.” She picks up bottles of seasoning. “I did this one and”—she hands me the first bottle, reaching for the next—“and this one. Salt.” She holds it up.
My smirk breaks through. “You have to twist them open.”
She looks at the bottle for a beat, then back at me. “Oh.”
Her cheeks go pink, and I see her resolve cracking. If it were just us, she’d burst into laughter, and I’d enjoy every moment.
I sprinkle the seasoning, salt hitting the meat, and move on before I kiss those confused lips.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” I hear Jaclyn say. “We all struggle to keep it together when he’s giving instructions.”
I inwardly chuckle.
“Looks like you’re doing just fine,” I say, passing her pan, perfectly seasoned, beautifully grilled chicken.
“Doll, I’m not a newbie.” She can even look me in the eye without checking out my bare torso. “Give her a break.” She winks at Shay, then grows serious. “Shay, sweetie, your heat is too high.”
I let Jaclyn assist Shay as I continue to each table. Laughter, the hiss of oil, and the clatter of tongs fill the room.
I know Jaclyn will get it right. The woman would know how to cook blindfolded.
“It’s not just the shirtless thing.” Jaclyn doesn’t keep her voice low as I turn toward the counter. “It’s that voice. That low, sexy voice that makes it hard to follow the recipe.”
Low and sexy, huh?
Shay snorts.
It’s quiet but unrestrained.
I guess she doesn’t think so. And weirdly, I like that.
She isn’t here to stroke my ego. If anything, she’s making me work for her attention.
I keep teaching.
I keep moving.
I keep pretending I don’t know exactly where she is at any given time.
But my jokes land better when I know she’s listening. And I catch myself glancing her way after each one, to see if she’s smiling.
She is.
Every time.
Even if she’s bent over her pan trying to figure out what she’s done wrong. And they’re not polite smiles either—they’re real.
They twist one way when she thinks the joke is actually funny—crooked and bright. Then, another way, when she thinks it’s corny. Smug but entertained. And I even catch her rolling her eyes a couple of times.
Hell, I’ll take those over swooning any day.
By the end of the lesson, the food looks good, and everyone’s relaxed, sipping wine and enjoying their creations.
I’m riding that familiar post-class buzz, but the compliments and questions they ask me—stuff they could’ve Googled in ten seconds—slide right off.
None of it lands.
I want her.
“You’re very charming.” She steps to the counter, close enough that her arm brushes mine. “I get it now.”
“Get what?”
She dunks her plate in the sink of sudsy water. “Why they listen to you.” She washes the plate with a knitted washcloth, watching me over her shoulder. “You do the confident thing. The ‘trust me, I know what I’m doin’ thing.”
I laugh. “I do know what I’m doing.”
“It’s still charming.” She rinses the plate and sets it on the drying rack.
Neither of us moves right away. We just stand here. Too close. Not moving.
“I’ve got a break until three.”
Her smile goes warm and soft. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She glances toward the hallway. Then back at me. “Lead the way, Chef.”
Sneaking around shouldn’t be this thrilling. It is.
Sunlight filters in through the curtains in her room. I close the door behind us and lean back against it, watching her kick off her shoes. Her shirt is next, and we don’t make it very far after that.
But later, staring at the ceiling with her half on top of me, leg thrown over mine, her head nestled in the crook of my arm, I’m surprised at how unhurried I feel.
She’s half under the blanket, half bare, warm skin against mine.
There’s a plate of cookies balanced on my stomach. She smuggled them in at some point. A chocolate chip rolls off her and lands on my chest.
“You’re getting crumbs in the bed.” I grab it, pop it in my mouth, and let it dissolve slowly.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe we should move to your bed.”
“I don’t want crumbs in my bed.” She laughs and breaks off another piece, sliding it between my lips. “I could stay here all day.
This is the part that messes with me.
Usually, after sex, there’s a moment—a shift. One or both reach for our phones, our clothes, or an excuse to get moving.
Even when it’s good—especially when it’s good—there’s an understanding that the bubble pops eventually.
This bubble is stubborn. Won’t pop. Just comfortably stretches.
She rolls onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “So,” she says. “Do you alphabetize your cookbooks?”
“I do not.”
Her eyes widen. “You absolutely do.”
“Categorized,” I argue. “There’s a difference.”
She smiles like she’s filing that away for later. “You’re a secret nerd.”
“I am not secret about it.”
She laughs, and I feel it low in my chest.
It hits harder than anything else today. Harder than it has any right to.
I roll onto my side to face her. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you sort your negatives by year?” I wind a slow curl of her hair around my finger.
“I do not.”
“You totally do.”
“Chronologically,” she argues. “There’s a difference.”
“You’re a secret nerd,” I tease.
Her smile widens, and she lightly slaps my chest. “I am not secret about it.”
I catch her arm and kiss her hand.
We stay there, tangled up, trading silly little confessions like we’ve known each other forever.
Talking about nothing. Talking about everything.
She tells me about mislabelling one of Tess’s shipments and realizing, too late, that she’d sent the wrong toy to the wrong address.
I tell her about the time my dog jumped on the counter during a live, and I bent down to pick her up, and the camera got a full-moon moment.
I listen.
She listens.
At some point, the conversation lapses into silence. But it’s not awkward or tense. It’s just quiet and nice.
At three o'clock, she drives to join me and bake sugar cookies with the class.
“Hey.” I catch her waist before we step into the kitchen.
“Yeah?”
I lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek, tasting the spices from earlier still on her skin.
“You’re doing great today.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m doing terrible.”
“Sugar cookies are easy. I promise.”
She snorts and walks inside. She grabs an apron, ties it too tightly, and has to re-tie it.
The hostesses catch my eye from across the room. The sisters both wear matching, smug little smiles, as if they orchestrated this whole thing and won. Which, they did.
They deliberately sent her into my room, knowing damn well I was in there. But I can’t complain. I’d never complain.
I’d almost go as far as calling it fate, which is not a word I ever use.
The cookies aren’t easy. Not to her. The dough doesn’t roll out right or bake properly.
Every instinct in me wants to step behind her, guide her hands, show her slow—hands over hands.
I don’t.
Besides, the other ladies are quick to jump in and help her. They’re not the teasing, eye-wagging chaos they pretend to be. These are my core lady fans—the ones who have been through everything with me.
Flour dusts the air. Butter and sugar melt sweetly. Someone laughs. Someone swears at a timer. The whole kitchen hums.
Shay watches them for a moment, then, instead of fighting the dough, wipes her hands on a towel and reaches for her camera, hanging the worn strap around her neck.
Click.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, crouch low, snapping the rolling pin mid-roll, flour puffing into the light.
Click. Click.
Jaclyn’s hands knead dough with red nails and gold rings. Butter smears across her knuckles.
Shay documents it all, then she turns it on me, sneaking shots.
I pretend not to notice.
I absolutely notice.
She squints one eye and bites her bottom lip as she lines up a shot—the tiny mechanical shutter sounds.
I fight a smile as I slide a tray into the oven.
Click.
Heat blasts my face when I open the door. Warm vanilla, toasted sugar, and butter wrap around me.
Click.
“You documenting me?”
She grins behind the lens. “Chronologically.”
The last tray comes out. People linger, trading cookies, sipping wine, laughter bubbling up in the soft light.
Shay fits in like she’s been with us all along.
That thought hits me square in the chest.
The fact that I like it?
Hits harder.
We’re last in the kitchen this time.