I soften my features, “I want you here. For…me.”
Her eyebrows knit. “I don’t understand.”
“I do like you.”
“Oh?” She seems skeptical.
“I wouldn’t have proposed this arrangement if I didn’t. I trust you.”
Some of the tension drains from her shoulders.
“Will you accept my apology for acting like a dick?” I offer my most disarming smile.
She studies me,unimpressed.
Tough audience.
My wife isn’t nearly as easy to charm as the rest of the world.
She presses her lips together.
“Hmm.What about the times you acted like an arse in the kitchen?”
This woman.
Give her an inch,and she takes the whole damn mile. I feel the laugh rise in my chest. I swallow it down.
“That was warranted.”
“What?” Her eyes widen. She draws breath to argue.
I lift a hand, cutting her off.
“You’re a good chef. I want you to be a great one. That’s why I push you.”
Her fingers move to her temple. She rubs it slowly, thinking.
When she looks back at me, the heat in her expression has cooled. Something steadier has taken its place.
“You can come into my room anytime. No need to knock.”
She surveys my features; realizes I’m being serious. Her shoulders relax further. “Good night, Chef.”
She shuts the door behind her.
The exhaustion from the day weighs heavily on my shoulders.
I stagger to my bed, then drop my towel and sprawl under the covers. I close my eyes and fall asleep.
I’m woken up with the sound of footsteps. Light. Careful. Moving across the floor toward the bed.
Every muscle locks. Every nerve fires. Someone's in my flat. Someone's in my bedroom.
The footsteps are trying to be quiet. Stealthy. The kind of quiet that means intent. Means danger.
My heart slams against my ribs. Threat. Intruder. Attack.
No one has a key. No one should be here. Malice doesn't walk like this—soft paws, not human feet. This is—This is someone who shouldn't be here. Someone who broke in. The darkness shifts around me. The bedroom walls dissolve.
