Page 55 of Ruthless Enforcer

How does he know that? "I know my way around a kitchen."

"Ordering staff to prepare meals doesn't count."

I laugh, reaching past him to steal a piece of mushroom from the bowl. It's earthy and rich, sautéed in butter and herbs, and I make a small, involuntary sound of approval.

Gabriel's hand stills and he frowns at me. "Don't do that.”

"Do what?" I lick my fingers and then decide to nab another slice of mushroom.

His gaze zeros in on my mouth. "Don’t make noises like that when I'm trying to concentrate."

Heat floods my face. Is he turned on? Is it that easy? "I was appreciating the food.”

"Appreciate it silently."

I take one more mushroom just to be contrary.

He doesn't stop me. Instead, he adds the mushrooms to the rice, then ladles in stock with the kind of methodical patience I didn't know he possessed.

I lean against the counter beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch so I can watch. "Your mother taught you this?"

"My mother, my aunts, my cousins." He stirs the risotto in slow, even circles. "Growing up in a Colombian-Irish household meant loud dinners, louder arguments, and someone always commandeering the stove."

I try to picture it—Gabriel as a boy, surrounded by family and noise and the kind of chaotic affection I only ever saw on TV, when I was allowed to watch. My childhood was lavish, but it hadn’t been warm—not like that. "Sounds nice."

He glances at me, something unreadable flickering in his blue eyes, like he heard the wistfulness I was trying to hide. "It still is, when I'm not the black sheep, out kidnapping heiresses."

"Rescuing," I correct.

"Right.” He smiles, his dimples flashing. “Rescuing."

Because it’s something I can do, I refill our wineglasses, staying next to him as he finishes cooking—a man making dinner for his wife. Except I'm not really his wife, and he's not really just a man.

"It's ready," Gabriel says, breaking the spell.

He plates the risotto with care, adding a drizzle of olive oil and a scatter of fresh parsley, then hands me a bowl and a fork. We sit at the bar counter, since the kitchen table is in my studio laden with art supplies.

The risotto is perfect—creamy and rich and warming. I close my eyes and let the flavors settle on my tongue, and when I open them again, Gabriel is watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

"Good?" he asks, his voice low.

"Incredible."

His mouth curves into that wicked, dimpled grin. "Careful, Duchess. You keep looking that happy and I’m going to start cooking for you every night."

My heart clutches with longing. Yes, please. I want that.

46

GABRIEL

I’m in trouble.

Not because Clara Whitlock—Clara Reyes—is sitting on my kitchen counter wearing my ring.

Not because she spent the day looking at me like I was something worth putting on canvas.

Because she smiled when she tasted my risotto, and my first thought was that I want to make her dinner tomorrow.