Chapter Two #2
I smiled. “I can complain if it’ll make you more comfortable.”
“No, please. I’ve had enough dramatic men in professional kitchens to last me several lifetimes.”
“The Foundry wanted me,” I said. “I’m going to New York to play hockey. There are worse problems.”
“And Redmont?”
“This is mine. I grew up not far from here.”
Her gaze moved past me toward the windows, where the last of the daylight had thinned between the trees.
“You built a very expensive house in Colorado while planning to spend most of the year somewhere else. That explains the mountain part. It still doesn’t explain why you needed a restaurant-sized kitchen.”
“My family worked construction. I grew up around job sites, and I knew what I liked when I finally had the money to build it.”
She looked around again, this time with a different kind of interest.
“So you were involved in the design?”
“I made the architect earn his fee.”
Chrishelle smiled. “I knew there was a reason the kitchen actually worked.”
“I’ll take that as approval.”
“You should.” She gestured around the kitchen. “Kitchens in expensive houses are often designed for photographs instead of cooking.”
“That would’ve driven me crazy, and I barely cook.”
“See? There may be hope for you yet.”
I carried plates to the island while she finished the chicken. By the time we sat down, the windows had gone dark enough to reflect the warm interior lights, and the property beyond them had disappeared into trees and night.
I cut into the chicken.
The first bite made me stop.
Chrishelle watched me from across the island with poorly concealed satisfaction.
“You’re waiting for me to say something.”
“I’m eating my own dinner. What you do with yours is entirely your business.”
I took another bite.
The chicken was tender, the sauce bright without being sharp, and the rice tasted like something instead of a delivery system for calories.
“This is ridiculous.”
Her brows lifted. “In a good way?”
“You know it’s good.”
Chrishelle’s satisfaction deepened. “I do, but I’m enjoying the professional validation.”
I laughed and kept eating.
The greens still had some bite. The rice picked up everything left on the plate. None of it felt heavy enough to wreck my workout, and none of it tasted like I was eating because somebody had calculated a macro target and forgotten food was supposed to be enjoyable.
“You could do this every day?” I asked.
Chrishelle set down her fork. “Cook food like this without turning it into a four-hour project? Yes. Not this exact meal every day, unless you want to hate chicken by Tuesday.”
“I’ve eaten basically the same rotation for years.”
“That ends now.”
The certainty in her voice made me grin.
“You’ve been in my house for an hour.”
“And already your quality of life has improved.”
There she was again, constructing an argument so confidently that the fact she had originally entered my life naked and illegally almost became irrelevant.
Almost.
“What do I need to buy?”
She brightened immediately.
“That depends on what you’ll actually eat and what your routine looks like.”
“Tomorrow should be nothing unusual.”
“Then you need more vegetables, potatoes, decent bread, more herbs, a couple of proteins that aren’t chicken, and something with enough flavor to keep you from treating meals like maintenance.”
“I like steak.”
“Good. Put that on the list.”
I pulled out my phone.
She came around the island and stood beside me while I opened a note. Up close, I caught the faint clean scent of whatever she’d used in the shower beneath the lemon and garlic from dinner.
She started dictating.
Potatoes. Bread. Tomatoes. Peppers. More greens. Fresh fruit beyond the apples I’d bought. Butter, because apparently olive oil could not be forced to carry my entire culinary future alone. Parmesan. Steak.
“Anything else?” I asked.
Chrishelle considered the question.
“Do you own a pepper grinder?”
“Yes.”
She looked relieved. “We can work with that.”
I added the last few items.
“If this arrangement is going to continue,” she said, “I also need your training schedule. I’m not making you a giant meal ten minutes before you work out.”
“Tomorrow I’ll train early. I put a workout space downstairs.”
Her gaze dropped over me briefly before returning to my face. “I suppose that also explains the shoulders.”
“You already used that line.”
“I’m still right.”
I set the phone down before I did something too soon.
We finished dinner, and Chrishelle started gathering plates.
“You cooked,” I said. “I can clean.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know. Sit down for five minutes.”
She gave me a look as I took the plates from her. “Are you always this bossy? That had a lot of confidence for a suggestion.”
She let me keep them.
“I grew up in a house where whoever didn’t cook cleaned.”
“Your family is welcome in my kitchen anytime.”
“That’s generous, considering how selective you are about property rights.”
She laughed and settled back against the island while I loaded the dishwasher.
The anger I’d been carrying since I found her outside had mostly burned off somewhere between the shallots and dinner.
Losing the anger was supposed to be a relief.
Instead, it left more room for the other problem.
Chrishelle had crossed one ankle over the other, and the position shifted her shorts higher on her thighs. She was telling me why the pan needed to be washed by hand instead of put in the dishwasher, and I had to concentrate harder than a conversation about cookware deserved.
I looked up and found her smiling.
“You stopped listening.”
“I heard you. The pan has feelings.”
“The pan has a coating I don’t want you to destroy.” She slid off the stool and came around the island. “Give it to me.”
She stopped beside me, close enough that neither of us moved.
The playful expression on her face faded by degrees. Her gaze went to mine, and the kitchen seemed quieter with the water no longer running and the range shut off.
My breathing deepened, but I didn’t move away. Chrishelle didn’t either.
“Earlier, when you told me I’d better turn around, I did.”
Her eyes held mine. “I noticed.”
“I was tempted to look. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
Her lips parted slightly. “I figured.”
The color rising into her cheeks had nothing to do with the stove now.
She took one step closer.
She was close enough that I could’ve kissed her, but I didn’t.
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
Her gaze dropped briefly, then returned to mine.
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in it.
I kissed her.
Chrishelle came into me at the same time, one arm sliding around my shoulders as I put mine around her waist. The first touch of her lips was softer than I expected after an evening of arguing, but that lasted about two seconds.
Then she kissed me back harder.
Heat moved through my chest and neck. I drew her closer, stopping when her body met mine and giving her every chance to change her mind.
She didn’t.
Her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of my neck, and she rose onto her toes to get closer. I bent to make up the difference and deepened the kiss.
She made a quiet sound against me that nearly destroyed what remained of my good judgment.
I could have lifted Chrishelle onto the island, settled her legs around me, and done considerably more than kiss her.
Chrishelle pulled away just enough to breathe.
Her blue eyes were bright, and her cheeks were flushed.
“That was not included in the original settlement.”
“No.”
“Good.”
I smiled. “Why is that good?”
“Because I don’t want you thinking you earned it by agreeing not to tell anyone I’m next door.”
Any remaining amusement disappeared.
“I don’t.”
“I know.” Her expression softened. “That’s why I kissed you back.”
I brushed my thumb once over the side of her waist, then let my hand settle again.
“I’m glad we’re clear.”
“So am I.”
She stayed against me another few seconds before taking a slow breath and stepping away.
Chrishelle glanced toward the clock and then at the dark windows. “I should go.”
I nodded, because keeping her here after she’d said that wasn’t an option.
“Okay.”
She retrieved her tote while I walked her to the rear door.
At the threshold, she looked toward the path home, then at me.
“We should probably exchange numbers.”
“That sounds practical.”
“It is practical. I’m required to request permission before future hot-tub use, and shouting through the trees would undermine the privacy you’re so attached to.”
I handed her my phone.
She entered her number, then called herself so she had mine.
A second later, a muffled vibration came from inside her tote.
“There. We have successfully modernized the arrangement.”
“And tomorrow?”
Chrishelle slung the tote over her shoulder.
“Text me when you finish training. If you bought everything on that list, I’ll make breakfast.”
The fact that she had just volunteered to come back mattered more than I expected after one meal and one kiss.
“I’ll have it. I can handle produce.”
“I’m trusting you with produce selection,” she said, “but you thought plain chicken and rice was a complete culinary philosophy, so I’m reserving judgment.”
I opened the door for her.
The cool night air moved into the warm kitchen. Beyond the deck, the path was already dark beneath the trees, the neighboring house still completely hidden from view.
Chrishelle stepped outside, then turned.
“Good night.”
“Good night, Chrishelle.”
She walked off the deck and disappeared between the evergreens.
I went back inside, but the kitchen didn’t feel quite as empty as it had before she arrived. It still smelled like lemon and garlic, and the grocery list she’d dictated was waiting on my phone.
I opened the order and started adding everything she’d told me to buy.
When I finished, I looked through the glass doors toward the hot tub.
A few hours ago, I’d wanted Chrishelle out of it.
Now I was wondering how soon I could get her back in.
With me.