Kissing the Chef (6ix Loves #1)

Chapter 1

OLIVIA

“Ihate you.” Air saws through my lungs as sweat trickles into my eyes and stings like hell.

The salty drop slides off my nose and hits the gym mat with a faint plop. I push up into standing, finishing what must be my millionth burpee.

Jonah taps the toe of my runner with his own, grinning like a man who enjoys other people’s suffering. “Stop being a crybaby and give ’em to me, darlin’.”

His nudge and that damn grin grind on my nerves—exactly his intention. I grit my teeth and drop into a plank, press through one more rep, and slide into a low push-up with something bordering on rage.

“Elbows tight.” The amusement in his voice fans the slow burn in my chest.

I should be riding high on endorphins by now. Isn’t that the whole point? Instead, there’s a monster brewing just beneath the surface—a snarky, sweaty beast who loathes exercise with every aching muscle in her body. She’s pretty much guaranteed to show up at some point.

A snarl slips past my lips. “Seriously, I fucking hate you.”

I collapse face-first onto the mat, my limbs nothing more than twitching noodles. Wasting away in this very spot is a possibility, and I’m okay with that. At the very least, my misery would be nonexistent.

Ugh. I should probably peel my cheek off the vinyl before it fuses with my skin.

Gross.

“My, my. You’re cattier than usual today.” His southern drawl, normally endearing, makes me want to hurl something large and guaranteed to hurt at his head.

Jonah, of course, is unfazed. He’s used to my workout dramatics. Honestly, he’d probably be concerned if I wasn’t this cranky.

“Liv, cut the sass. We’re almost done.” He drops my water bottle beside me on the mat like a peace offering and chuckles again.

The idea of cool water on my parched lips is practically pornographic. But I’d have to prop up my head to drink. Impossible.

“Any chance you could, I don’t know, lift my head and pour it down my throat?” My dry and raspy words are sugarcoated with desperation.

“Would you like me to swallow for you too?”

Any other time and I’d love his sarcasm. Now, not so much.

“No, I’ve got it.” I manage to raise my head a few inches and flash a wobbly grin.

His eyes twinkle—too pleased with himself. Sadist.

Jonah’s seen me at my worst. On our first day of this partnership, I couldn’t do a single push-up without collapsing in a pile of self-loathing. Now here I am, stronger—still swearing, but moving.

He extends a hand, like some sweat-streaked mirage in a desert of pain, and I hesitate. It would be too easy to just grab it even if moments ago, I would have taken it without a second thought.

No. I can do this. I’m strong and capable. The words flit through my head like a chant as I push into a seated position and force my shaky legs beneath me.

“You’re a tyrant.” I don’t mean it. My venom is just camouflage. Underneath it all, I’m grateful. His guidance and support are helping me change my life.

Jonah Carson isn’t cheap, and at first, I hemmed and hawed about hiring him as my personal trainer. I had to be smart with my money. It would’ve been different if I was still a stay-at-home mom with a husband as the sole breadwinner. But that was no longer my life.

Thank goodness.

Then I met him and my reservations flew out the window. We were like long-lost best friends. Someone who would push me to be my best, yet also understood I was vulnerable. We had an immediate trust that I’d only ever had with my best friend.

His Nashville drawl cuts through my wonderings. “I believe the term is trainer.” He saunters toward the massage table. “Now come on, hop up. You’ve earned a rubdown.”

He fastens a small black apron around his waist. The bottle of massage oil sits on his hip like a hammer holstered on a tool belt.

“Make sure you have a warm Epsom salts bath tonight, you hear me?” He spins around, back to me. “You were great today. You gave it your all—and you’re definitely going to feel it.”

Ignoring him and his valuable advice, I focus on our previous tit-for-tat dialogue and slowly remove my shorts and tank.

“Nope, tyrant fits better.” I stagger to the table, hoist on the bed, flip onto my stomach, and pull the sheet up to my waist. “I’m already in hell. And tomorrow? Let’s just say I’ll be haunting you from the afterlife.”

He chuckles, and the squirt of oil signals he’s about to begin. “That’s the spirit.”

This—this—is the only part of working out I ever look forward to.

Jonah’s massages are borderline divine. His hands glide over the backs of my thighs and calves with practiced ease, all strength and precision. My body sinks into the padded table as the ache in my legs starts to melt away. I moan, a long, drawn-out, completely involuntary sound.

“Easy there, vixen.” Though face down, I imagine the corner of his mouth twitching with his tease.

I’d be embarrassed, but we’ve long since passed that. The first few times I found myself on his table, I couldn’t control my sounds.

Jonah laughed so hard he cried. Actually cried. Then he nicknamed me horny vixen. The name stuck for only a few weeks. I’ve since reclaimed my dignity. Mostly.

My apologies stopped long ago; being vocal is part of who I am. I was never silent in bed either. Tried, failed. Unless something was stuffed in my mouth—and not in a fun way—I couldn’t stay quiet.

Pete, my ex-husband, was the complete opposite. Stoic. Mute. I never knew if my pleasure turned him on or off. I never knew anything, really. Not how he felt about our marriage, or me, or sometimes even the kids. I’m not even sure when things changed, when that became our new normal.

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? He was indifferent, and I was invisible.

Even still, our failed marriage isn’t all on him. It takes two and all that. I didn’t know it at the time, but my inaction—some might even say compliance—made me a participant in my downward spiral.

At first, I couldn’t fathom walking away from my marriage no matter how lonely and miserable I was.

Though not a great defense, I was in love or I had been at one time.

Our relationship spanned decades, things were great for at least half of it, and I had my children to think about. Yet, I lost sight of me.

That part of my life is over now. I’m here, working on me, finally coming back to life. I’m living on my own terms and running my own business.

Eyes closing, I banish any thoughts of the past and relish Jonah’s magic. His hands are firm but careful, knowing exactly how far to push, how to read the tension in my muscles. It’s…

Nice. Not the touch itself, but the care behind it. I can’t really explain it, yet there’s a belonging or security in it. Being touched with care and kindness settles something in my soul, calming me in a way that I didn’t know I needed.

After the massage and a scalding hot shower, my limbs are half-gooey, but in the best way. I towel off, slick on moisturizer, and slip into my newest outfit—an investment piece.

In the mirror, I twirl. The hem of my red skirt flounces just right, feminine and fun, while the white peplum top hugs my waist and shows off the curve of my hips. Strappy black heels give me a little height and a little swagger.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. I’m finally at a place where I like what I see.

No, scratch that. I love what I see.

Strong legs. Brighter eyes. Confidence blooming just beneath the surface. I’ve worked hard for this—for her. I’m not all the way there yet, but I’m coming back to myself.

My phone buzzes with a text. Pete. Again.

Dinner? Tonight? Would love to talk.

No. I’ve already said no. Twice.

He wants to “rekindle” things—his word, not mine. But there’s nothing left to rekindle. The flame’s long gone, and all that remains are ashes that I’ve already swept away.

I leave him on read. Again.

Back in Jonah’s home gym, he’s finishing up, wiping down equipment with practiced efficiency. His house is massive, designed so the business side doesn’t bleed into the personal.

He looks up and whistles. “Whoo-eee. You headed to work or a hot date?”

“Work.” My hands smooth down my skirt. “Is it too much?”

“Hell, no.” He doesn’t hesitate and scans the outfit with genuine admiration. “It’s perfect. You look gorgeous, as usual.”

I smile, a little bashful despite myself. “It’s new. My other clothes are too big now. Sin’s going to be thrilled; she’s already called dibs.”

Sin—Tamsin, my best friend since forever—has inherited nearly half my old wardrobe since I started shedding pounds and inches. She’s a tall, curvy blonde with the body of a vintage pinup and the confidence of a rock star.

“The struggle’s real.” He opens a drawer in the kitchenette behind the gym. “You hungry? Lunch is ready.”

My workout schedule changes weekly, but we usually eat together once a week. Today, it’s sushi. Clean, simple, and delicious. We set up in his office at a small table that doubles as a desk and a catch-all for fitness gear.

He chews his last bite of tuna roll and levels me with a look. “So who’s the lucky client you’re meeting dressed like that?”

“I don’t want to say anything until it’s a done deal.” I hold up my crossed fingers and grin. “She’s opening a boutique hotel and needs an interior designer.”

His brow lifts, skeptical. “A woman? Really?”

“Yes. Why?”

He runs a hand through his blond hair and grins. “Just wondering if I need to worry or not.”

I groan. “Jonah, don’t start.”

“You’re hot.” He shrugs, as if that explains everything. “And I happen to know Brad will be out with us tonight. I think you’d like him.”

Not this again. He’s been trying to set me up with one of his friends for a while now.

“Pass.” I don’t even try to hide my rebuff. “Brad’s closer to my son’s age than mine. And for the last time, I’m not interested in dating anyone, especially not a younger man.”

“Liv—”

I cut him off, tossing my napkin on the table as I rise. “Don’t. I’ve had this conversation with you too many times. I’m not ready. And when I am? I still won’t be dating younger guys.”

He stands, hands raised in surrender. “All right, all right. Just don’t shut yourself off from the world because of one guy who did you wrong. Besides, who said anything about dating?”

A soft laugh slips out of me. He means well.

My hands rest on his forearm, grounding myself in his affection and sincerity.

“I know you care. I love that about you. And I love you in a totally platonic, please-stop-trying-to-set-me-up kind of way.” He chortles, and a smile tugs at my lips.

“I need to find my own way. No shortcuts. No side quests. Just…me. Right now, that’s all I need. ”

He looks at me with that familiar warmth, the one that tells me he gets me—really gets me. “Fair enough. But don’t sell yourself short, Liv. You’ve come so far. Most people would’ve given up. You didn’t. That counts for something.”

A lump catches in my throat. “Thank you.” Then I shake off this sappy talk with a dose of reality. “And let’s face facts. I’m a forty-two-year-old divorcée with two practically grown kids, and a new small business.” I can’t help but smile despite how freaking scary it sounds.

He opens his mouth, brows knitting, and I lean in for a hug. “Let’s leave it at that. Okay?”

His posture softens as we hug, and it’s comforting—strong arms, quiet support, no strings attached.

“I have to go.” I step back. “Client meeting, then kid duty. And tomorrow I’m swimming. Don’t worry.”

“You better.” He winks. “And if you change your mind about tonight, we’ll be at Swig. Text me. I’ll come pick you up.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” I toss him a wry grin. “Besides, I’ve got Paige this week, and I’m gearing up for Montreal.”

“Montreal?”

“Girls’ weekend. Sin, Erin, and me.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Sin got away from the chaos?”

“It was her idea, actually. Colin’s staying home with the kids.”

He gives a low whistle and shakes his head. “Man’s a saint.”

“I’ll see you Thursday.” I’m already at the door. “Wish me luck with the client.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it, darlin’. You’ve got this.”

I walk out into the sunshine, heels clicking on the pavement, muscles aching, heart full. I don’t need a man. I need momentum. And for the first time in a long time, I’ve got it.

Jonah can keep playing matchmaker all he wants. I’m not looking.