Chapter 2 #2
over her shoulder, and those green eyes do something to my
blood pressure that should require medical attention. "I tend to
cook when I'm restless. Hope you don't mind—I replaced what
I used."
"You didn't need to?—"
"I know. But I wanted to." She turns back to whatever
she's creating, and I catch a glimpse of golden-brown
something in the pan. "Emma mentioned you usually just have
coffee for breakfast. That's not exactly fuel for running a music
Empire."
How the hell does she know about my breakfast habits?
And since when does Emma pay attention to what I eat?
"I'm not hungry in the mornings," I lie, because the truth
is I've forgotten how to want things like home-cooked meals.
Wanting leads to needing, and needing leads to disappointment.
"You will be." She flips whatever she's making with the
confidence of someone who knows her way around a kitchen.
"French toast stuffed with mascarpone and fresh berries. Rosa
mentioned you used to have a sweet tooth."
Rosa mentioned that? When the hell did Rosa and the
new nanny become confidantes?
I move closer to get the coffee, trying to ignore the way
she smells like vanilla and something warmer, more personal.
The coffee is perfect—strong enough to wake the dead but
smooth enough to actually enjoy.
"The previous nannies didn't cook," I say, because
apparently I'm making conversation now.
"The previous nannies were idiots." She slides golden-
brown French toast onto a plate, the mascarpone oozing
slightly, berries scattered on top like edible confetti. "Here. Try
It."
She holds out the plate, and when I reach for it, our
fingers brush. The contact is brief but electric, sending a jolt
straight through me.
Like she can see right through the walls I've spent years
Building.
"You don't have to feed me," I say, but I'm already
cutting into the French toast. "I'm paying you to take care of
Emma, not me."
"I'm not feeding you because you're paying me." She
leans against the counter, arms crossed in a way that pushes her
breasts up and makes me forget what we're talking about. "I'm
feeding you because you look like you haven't had a decent meal
in months."
The French toast is fucking incredible. Rich, sweet, with
just enough tartness from the berries to balance the indulgence.
I haven't tasted anything this good since?—
Since before. When food was about pleasure instead of
Fuel.
"It's good," I admit, because denying it would be
Pointless.
"It's better than good. It's amazing, and we both know
it." She grins, and there's something almost predatory in her
confidence. "I don't do false modesty. I know I'm a good cook."
Her phone buzzes on the counter, and I watch her face
transform as she reads the message—the guarded expression
softening into something that looks like genuine happiness.
"Good news?" I ask, curious about what could make her
smile like that.
"Just a friend checking in." She types a quick response
before looking up at me. "Luna."
She's my college roommate and the most loyal person I
know." Melody's voice carries a warning edge. "Fair warning?—
she'll probably want to vet you eventually. Make sure you're not
secretly a complete asshole."
"I am secretly a complete asshole."
"I know." Her lips twitch. "But she'll want to verify it
firsthand."
The corner of my mouth twitches back. Almost a smile.
"Does she know about your situation?"
"She knows." Melody's expression grows serious.
"Luna's the only friend who didn't disappear when my life went
to shit. She showed up with wine and Chinese food, let me cry
on her couch, and never once asked me to explain what
happened—even though it would've made a killer story for her
Blog."
Arrogant little thing. Most people tiptoe around me,
afraid to claim any kind of expertise. But not Melody Brooks.
She owns her skills like she owns that body, without apology.
"Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"My grandmother. She believed food was love made
edible." Something soft crosses her expression, gone so quickly
I almost miss it. "She said you could tell everything about a
person by how they feed the people they care about."
She reaches for plates to stack in the dishwasher, and her
shirt rides up slightly, revealing a strip of soft skin above her
waistband.
My breath catches. The sight hits me, and I feel my cock
hardening instantly. Blood rushes south so fast it makes me
dizzy, and I have to grip the counter to keep from reaching for
Her.
Fuck, I'm getting hard from a glimpse of skin like some
horny teenager.
She notices me staring. I see the exact moment awareness
flickers in her eyes, the way her pupils dilate slightly. Heat flares
between us, thick and dangerous, and I can practically taste the
Tension.
"Mr. Kane," she says, and her voice is slightly breathless,
like she's feeling this pull too.
The way she says my name, all soft and uncertain, makes
my dick throb against my jeans. I can't think, can't breathe,
can't do anything but stare at her like she's the first woman I've
ever seen.
Which is exactly the fucking problem.
"I have calls to make," I manage, my voice rougher than
Gravel.
I turn and walk out of the kitchen before I do something
monumentally stupid. Like pin her against that counter and
find out if she tastes as good as she looks.
Behind me, I hear her sharp intake of breath, and I know
she's as affected as I am.
Fuck me sideways.
Continue reading this steamy romance CLICK HERE
Thank you for reading Knocked Up By My Enemy. Please consider leaving a review if you enjoyed the book. Every bit helps.
Don’t forget to FOLLOW so you can be notified whenever I have new releases.