Chapter Fourteen #2
He still wanted her—God, did he ever. But when he thought about his parents’ perfect, predestined marriage, he thought about the little moments like these. The two of them working in the kitchen or cuddling up or talking.
He’d spent all this time pushing everyone away. He’d thought he’d been protecting himself—and maybe he had been.
But maybe he’d also been missing out on this.
Eventually, they got their turn at the stove.
Chef gave them a lecture about exactly how he’d gone about marinating the meat before they’d arrived, and then coached them through getting the heat right and what to look for as they cooked.
Softening onions, the aromatic scent of garlic. Browning the chicken.
Hunter’s stomach rumbled as the meat sizzled. “Is anybody else suddenly starving?”
“Ravenous,” Emma agreed.
“We’ll eat soon enough,” Chef promised.
He helped them judge when their dishes were done, encouraging them to test out a handheld temperature probe.
Hunter might have to acquire one of these himself.
Even if he didn’t end up cooking at home all that often, it’d be handy to have for summer nights when he tossed together an easy dinner by throwing something on the grill.
He got distracted for a minute, letting his mind wander to what it might be like to invite Emma up to the cabin for a visit.
They could cook together just like this.
Have a couple of beers, or maybe wine if that was what she was into, and sear up some steaks on the grill.
Afterward, maybe they’d sit together on the old porch swing that had come with the property and stare up at the stars…
And that was ridiculous. It was barely fall. The idea of enjoying a meal together at his cabin an entire year from now, when she’d never even been to his place, and when they were in this weird holding pattern…
It didn’t make any sense. But here he was, doing it anyway.
“Okay, I think that’s ready,” Chef prompted him, pulling him out of his thoughts and saving his chicken from burning.
“Looks good,” Emma told him as he followed instructions and transferred the cooked food to a plate.
They were the last ones to get a turn at the stove, so when they were done, Chef led them in assembling everything.
They wrapped their chicken and fresh toppings in a warm pita, drizzled it with homemade tzatziki and dusted it with feta and olives, then set it alongside a garden salad and dill rice, and voilà. A Greek feast indeed.
They all dug in, and it didn’t even matter that maybe he’d charred his chicken a little in his distraction earlier. “Damn,” he mumbled.
“I am definitely going to have to figure out how to do this at home,” Emma agreed, eating with gusto. He’d rarely seen her so unreserved, and he liked it. A lot.
“Save some room,” Chef prompted them. “Dessert is still coming.”
“Too late.” Hunter had already devoured most of his.
“You can always take dessert to go,” Hattie promised as she wandered past, refilling water glasses and clearing away empty plates.
“We’re keeping things simple for dessert, with a cheater baklava,” Chef promised, “and I’ve done most of the prep work for you.”
He and Hattie passed out trays arrayed with new ingredients, including chopped nuts, simple syrup, honey, and little pre-baked phyllo pastry cups.
“Almost as good as fresh,” he assured them with regard to the pre-made pastry, “but readily available in the freezer aisle at the co-op.”
Following his lead, they mixed up a tooth-achingly sweet filling and spooned it into the cups, then drizzled it all with honey.
Hunter snuck a glance at Emma, whose mouth was twisted slightly downward as Chef encouraged her to add even more of the sticky stuff.
His thoughts flashed back to the line dancing class, when she’d tried to pretend to like the punch, even though she obviously hated it.
While their desserts were baking, Hunter flagged Chef down. “If you’re not a big fan of the super sweet stuff, are there other fillings you could use?”
“Of course!” Chef gestured enthusiastically with his hands. “The sky’s the limit. A dark chocolate mousse, berries and cream, apple pie filling. Experiment! Play!”
“Great, thanks.”
Emma elbowed him in the ribs after the man had moved on. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I didn’t.” He nudged her back, gently, with his own elbow, allowing it to press against hers for just a moment, the heat of the contact searing through him. “But I have a vested interest in dessert.”
And he had an increasingly vested interest in sharing it with her.
Emma’s heart was racing, and not just from the sugar high of that sickly-sweet dessert.
All afternoon, she and Hunter had been drifting closer and closer, sharing stories while following Chef’s instructions.
Letting arms rest against arms and knees graze knees.
Exhilaration and confusion warred in her brain.
It was bad enough that he was tragically unavailable and unbearably attractive. Did she have to go and like him so much, too?
Exhaling hard, she wiped her sticky hands on a napkin, but the honey refused to come off. “I think this is going to need some soap.”
“I might have some industrial solvent in my truck,” Hunter joked, having similarly mediocre luck with his own mess.
Emma glanced at the kitchen, where there were half a dozen people gathered around the big sink.
“Pretty sure the bathroom’s free.” Hattie reached past them to clear some of their dishes.
“Thanks.” Emma stood, taking care not to touch anything.
Hunter shrugged as if to say worth a shot and followed her to the rear section of the restaurant. There were two single-user restrooms, but one of them was occupied. Hunter gestured at the open one and said, “You go ahead.”
She clumsily turned the tap to hot with her elbow. “Pretty sure we can both squeeze in, if you want.”
He frowned and seemed to consider for a moment before apparently deciding that there really wasn’t any reason not to.
Too late, she realized her obvious mistake.
In the tight space, he had to stand right next to her, his big, muscular frame grazing her side, and the warm, cedar scent of him making it hard for her to think.
She had to reach across him to get a squirt of soap from the dispenser.
Heat flared all along her arm, and this was not sexy.
They were just two people covered in honey trying to clean themselves off in a too-small bathroom, which was completely, totally normal.
While he soaped up his own hands, she rinsed off the best she could. She turned away, fast, but the paper towels were behind the door. She tried to grab some anyway, but as she did, the door swung closed with a bang.
“Oops,” she whispered beneath her breath, as Hunter turned around.
And yes, this bathroom was small. It had been since the moment she’d offered to share the space with him for completely selfless, practical, hygiene-related reasons. But had it been this small?
Had he been this big or handsome, or had he smelled this good? Had his hazel eyes been as deep, as their gazes met and locked?
“Emma—”
Her voice came out all breathy and strained and mortifying. “Yes?”
“Can I…?”
Oh, jeez. He was pointing at the paper towel dispenser she was standing right in front of. She tugged out a handful and shoved them at him, but their hands touched as he took them.
“I should—” She gestured at the door he was blocking.
They’d had a great time today, but they’d ended up here, together, because of Granny and whoever else in this weird, wonderful town she was conspiring with. They hadn’t planned it. Heck, she wasn’t even sure they’d wanted it.
But even as she made to leave and give him his space, he stood there, calmly drying his hands, watching her with eyes that seemed to see right through her and her crumbling restraint.
When he spoke her name again this time, it was so soft, her knees wobbled, and a tender ache gathered in her chest.
Dropping his paper towels in the trash, he reached forward as if to touch her cheek, the same way he had that night after the line dancing class.
Before he could, she lifted her own hand to curl her fingers around his warm, rough palm.
Tension arced through the air, electric currents swimming between them as she held on.
And this didn’t make any sense. She wasn’t ready for a relationship, and he didn’t want one. So why was she taking a step toward him? Why was he closing the space between their bodies? What was this heat, melting her from the inside?
Why did this impossible moment suddenly feel… inevitable?
She didn’t know.
All she knew was that when he finally curled his arms around her, warmth and safety bloomed in her chest. She’d still half expected one of them to flinch, but she drew in a deep breath, past the stuttering in her lungs.
He didn’t pull away, and she didn’t, either.
Emboldened, she looped a hand behind his neck, leaning forward on her toes, even as he was dipping down toward her.
Their mouths met in the middle in a kiss that was soft and tender—sweeter than the honey they’d been covered in, but in a good way. A great way.
Her eyelids fluttered closed as he swept his lips across hers. Once. Twice. Tentatively, she kissed him back, and the tingles that rushed through her buzzed all the way down to her toes.
They lingered like that for a moment before he pulled away by a fraction, keeping a steadying hand at the center of her back while seeking out her gaze. Raising his brows, he quipped dryly, “Well, that was certainly ‘trying something new.’”
“Yeah.” Laughing, she tipped forward to bury her face in his firm chest for a second, drinking in how good it felt to be held in his embrace. “Not quite as adventurous as line dancing…”
“But I felt like a whole lot less of a fool doing it.”
She lifted her gaze. “Exactly.”