“Okay,” I manage to say.
He watches me, his eyes dropping to my lips for a second before snapping back up to my eyes. The look is hungry, but it’s patient. He’s waiting for me.
“Do you think that’s a good or a bad thing?” he asks.
I look at him—really look at him. The kind baker who bandaged my hand in a parking lot. The man who made me tea and listened to me talk about my daughter. The man who is looking at me like I’m the only person in the world right now.
I smile, despite myself. “Why are you so interested in my opinion?”
Eli straightens up, but he doesn’t step away. He looks me dead in the eye. “Because right now, in this kitchen, no one’s opinion matters more to me than yours.”
The buzzing under my skin is back, louder than ever. My pulse is throbbing in my throat. I am standing on a precipice, and I know exactly what lies at the bottom.
“Stop flirting with me,” I whisper. I barely recognize my own voice—it’s low, raspy, and filled with a need I haven’t felt in years.
Eli grins, a wicked, confident tilt of his lips. He knows he has me. He knows I like it.
“Make me,” he challenges softly, but there’s no malice in it. Only warmth.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and him. Yeah, I definitely like Eli’s attention on me. And for the first time in a long time, I think I might be ready to let myself have it.
But I’m too much of a coward so I reach for another bite of my dessert instead.
CHAPTER SIX
Fallon
The screenin front of me is a blur of neon explosions and pixelated gore. I’m hammering the buttons on the controller with a rhythm that’s nearly instinctual, my thumbs flying over the plastic.
On the TV, my character—a heavily armored space marine—slides behind cover, reloads a plasma rifle, and pops up to nail a sniper across the map.
Headshot.
“Yes!” I shout, pumping a fist in the air, even though there’s no one here to see my victory but the potted fern in the corner of the room.
The living area of our warehouse apartment is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the massive flat-screen and the floor lamp in the corner. The high ceilings absorb the sound of the game, making the gunfire sound distant and hollow.
I’ve been at this for an hour, working off the residual energy from the dinner rush. Usually, by this time, I’d be out at a bar, or maybe back at someone’s place, but tonight, the couch and a virtual warzone were calling my name.
The heavy steel door to the apartment clicks open. I don’t pause the game—never pause—but I glance over my shoulder.
Knox steps in, looking like he’s just run a mental marathon. He’s shed his chef’s whites for a pair of dark sweatpants and a plain gray T-shirt. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, his posture rigid.
He stops in the entryway, frowning at the back of my head. “You’re home.”
“I am,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the screen as a grenade arcs toward my position. I vault over the barrier just in time.
“I didn’t expect you back before midnight.” He walks further into the room, the scent of rosemary and black pepper trailing him. “Usually, you’re out scouring the town for companionship until the wee hours.”
“Eli offered to handle the close,” I explain, tapping a button to sprint toward the extraction point.
Knox arches a brow, moving to the kitchen island to pour a glass of water. “Eli? Volunteering to scrub the floors and stack the chairs? That doesn’t sound like him. He usually hates closing.”
“Maybe he’s in a mood. Or maybe he’s just being a saint.” I shrug, dodging enemy fire. “I wasn’t going to argue. I got out of there while the getting was good.”
Knox takes a long sip of his water, leaning against the counter and watching me play. “So, you’re just going to sit here? On a Tuesday night? No date? No lucky lady from the motel?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You sound so judgmental. Is that the professional chef in you, critiquing my performance?”
