18. Helen
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There was only so much space and time to avoid him in the quaint cottage.
Perhaps that was the point. Trap us together in a small, comfortable space, lulling us into a sense of want and warmth.
After slipping back into the bedroom and sleeping half the day away, I woke, showered, then listened.
I left the room when I heard the front door open and lonely silence followed.
No evidence of the previous night’s event remained in the living room, though my gaze barely strayed in that direction.
I made a beeline for the kitchen, ransacked the fully stocked cabinets for something to settle the angry growling in my stomach.
I quickly snuck back to the room with toast, an apple, and coffee.
The front door opened and slammed shut an hour later, and I pointedly ignored every noise on the other side of the door.
Ignoring him meant forgetting about why an ache persisted in my core, and why my muscles lavished in an exquisitely satisfied soreness.
My first day of marriage passed alone and secluded in the master bedroom, holed up with work files I’d snuck into my luggage.
I ate the apple for dinner and fell into a fitful sleep in the center of a bed littered with documents and conflicting information.
I dreamt of soft touches, masked men, gentle whispers, blood splattered on the pavement, devouring kisses, and shadows strangling me in the dark.
The second day started similarly. Hot shower, work on my connecting missing pieces in my intel until hearing the front door, sneaking into the kitchen.
I made my coffee and stopped when I saw leftovers from a meal in the fridge.
Had the guards brought something last night, and I missed it?
I shrugged, added a splash of hazelnut cream to my mug, and exited the kitchen.
Halfway through the cottage, a dark flash of movement through a living room window caught my attention. Curiosity led me to the glass, hiding behind the curtain as I peered outside. The slice of toast in my mouth dropped, and I nearly lost my grip on my coffee.
Drake was in the front garden, wearing shorts with a damningly short inseam, and a matching running shirt that appeared painted onto his sculpted body. The light blue fabric clung to the mouth-watering contours of his broad shoulders, toned back, and his fantastic ass.
A strangled noise left me when he bent over to continue his stretching routine. The muscles in his thighs were insane. When the morning light highlighted each groove and dip of his chiseled form, my eyes nearly bugged out of my head.
Good thing no one was around to watch me bend over and scoop my jaw off the floor. It was quite embarrassing for me, really. And did I stand there watching his entire stretching regime before he sprinted off on his run? No, shut up about it.
A patch of discoloration on his right leg from the side of his knee crept to cover his calf and vanish under his sock.
My head tipped to the side, knowing he hadn’t had that on his leg ten years ago.
It almost looked like a burn scar, but he was too deep in the garden to get a clear view before he vanished out of sight.
Did I listen extra closely for his return and the sound of him showering in the spare bathroom down the hall?
It would be rude to assume, honestly. I certainly didn’t imagine rivers of hot water cascading over his muscled chest or what he’d taste like.
The heartbeat between my thighs might have, but that was beside the point.
I forced myself back to the smuggled work scattered over the large bed.
Four hours I poured over details, potentially tying random criminals to the uptick in attacks against the major crime families.
I scoured over every facet of every incident report available, cross-referencing names, searching for a pattern, reading, reading, reading, until my eyes strained from the effort.
My stomach grumbled in protest at the lack of a proper meal since the reception.
It wasn’t unusual for me to forget and accidentally skip meals when I became hyper fixated on something new.
However, it might have been on purpose, what with my new husband haunting the other side of the cottage.
I worked through my records, taking notes and highlighting potential leads as the light outside the bedroom window darkened and dusk crept into the room.
A clanging in the cottage startled me out of the grip of fervent research.
My head shot up, and I instantly groaned as my back uncurled from a very shrimp-like shape.
Another clattering, I assumed from the kitchen, reminded me of my hunger and brought attention to the throbbing ache in my head.
If our guards brought dinner again, I needed to grab a plate before returning to my notes.
My body wouldn’t let me work much longer if I didn’t fuel it.
But I’d have to face him if I went out there. An odd twirling of anticipation, excitement, and heavy nerves tangled together inside of my stomach. Fuck, I wanted to see him.
Heavenly smells flowed into the room the moment I cracked the bedroom door.
A distant sizzling and scrape of utensils sparked my attention.
My stomach led me into the hall to follow the aromatic scent spreading through the cottage.
Garlic, shallots, red wine, herbs… my insides panged at being so dreadfully empty.
I froze, trapped like a fly in a spider’s web, when I reached the kitchen entryway.
A wide back in a tight white t-shirt caught my gaze, as did the black apron tied around him, making the man seem like a present for me to unwrap.
It wasn’t necessarily the apron or even the man who stopped me in my tracks.
It was the sensational fact that Drake Graham was chopping vegetables and a pot of something smelling fantastic sizzled away beside him.
“Are you… are you cooking?”
His baritone laugh filled the air as if my presence hadn’t surprised him. Trained as he was, he probably heard me approach. Or he was as tuned to me as I was to him, and he just knew.
Drake briefly looked over his shoulder before turning back to his knife and cutting board. He sliced through carrots with the precise skill of a professional chef, and it was… wildly arousing, though I wouldn’t let him know that.
“These days, if I’m not killin’, I’m grillin’,” he said, a grin peeking through his side profile.
I slid into a barstool at the kitchen island, and audibly huffed. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
His barking laughter cracked through the awkward tension. The lingering traces of our night in the darkness existed in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t avoid him forever because I was confused about my feelings. And as hungry as I was, I wanted to interact with him more.
“You keeping track of all the stupid things I’ve said, then?”
My eyes rolled of their own accord. “I don’t have time to monitor such an extensive list.”
Drake added the finely diced vegetables to the pot before placing the used cutting board in the sink.
A few careful stirs of his concoction. Then he turned, bracing his hip on the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. The sweep of his rich, dark eyes over my face and body produced a coiling behind my pelvis.
My face heated, and I cleared my throat. He licked his bottom lip, chest dropping with his exhale.
“The food in the fridge,” my voice almost broke as it cut through the tension, “you cooked that too?”
He nodded slowly, assessing me. “I left some for you, but you never left the room.” There was an unspoken question there I wouldn’t answer.
“When did you learn to cook?”
Darkness glinted in his eyes, brows pinching together. Drake turned back to the stove, stirring like he needed something to do. “A while ago.”
“Are you any good?” I didn’t know I kept pressing. “I mean, it smells great, but taste is another thing entirely.”
“You tell me,” he tossed over his shoulder.
I sat back, blinking at him. When the silence stretched, he vented a half- huff, half-laugh.
“You’ve been eating my cooking for the past several weeks, Monty.”
My eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.
“No, I haven’t.”
“You have.”
“When?”
“Lunch. Like I just said.”
Understanding clicked in my head. Not once had I questioned where Drake picked up all those lunches he’d delivered to my office and insisted I eat. I ran on the assumption he ordered from somewhere local.
It meant something more that Drake had taken the time to cook a personal meal for me and bring it to me.
Every single day. He wasn’t just feeding me to make up for my own lack during busy days, not just looking out for me for one meal of the day.
Consideration went into the deliberate act of taking the time to cook someone a meal every single day and ensure they ate when they’d otherwise forget.
My heart twisted. Not uncomfortably.
“Why?”
Drake looked at the floor, shoulders lifting. “You needed to eat. You weren’t eating enough.”
A deep breath filled my lungs, bolstering my confidence. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”
His eyes cut to me, swirling with heat and surprise. If possible, my face flushed hotter. My breaths quickened as the air thinned. Before I knew it, he swallowed hard, then turned back to the stove. We existed, not quite comfortable, but marginally content, as Drake finished preparing dinner.
Without saying a word, I moved into action, pulling bowls and utensils down. His brows rose with interest, but he simply communicated with a nod. We moved into the dining room; he filled bowls, set out freshly warmed bread, and I poured wine into glasses.
“I’d ask if you like beef bourguignon, but you’re half French.” The teasing tone tugged at the corner of my lips.