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My heart rate kicks up as I turn, taking in the light, woodsy scent of Olivier’s cologne, which is becoming familiar to me in a very good way. I half expect him to kiss me, feeling a twinge of disappointment when he doesn’t. But he keeps his arm around my waist as Marla gives everyone directions on box packing.
“How are you at peeling potatoes?” I ask Olivier, turning to look up at him.
“Expert level.”
I lower my brows, skeptical. “How many potatoes have you peeled?”
“You mean ever?”
“Yes.”
“I peeled a lot of them as a kid. Probably more than you did.”
He has a point. I give him a sheepish look. “Probably.”
“Mr. Durand!”
Marla is rushing toward us, her arms outstretched.
“Olivier, please,” he says just before she crashes into him with a hug, squeezing him and rocking back and forth as she talks.
“You’re an angel,” she says. “I can’t tell you how much your generosity means to all of us. And you smell real good, too.”
She pulls away and gives me an appreciative look. “I suppose the two of you want to work at a station together?”
“Whatever you need us to do,” I say.
“Want to cook and bone chickens? It’s not the most glamorous job, but it needs to be done.”
“Sure, we’ll do that,” Olivier says.
We’re walking toward the kitchen when a tall man with dark hair and a dark beard stops Olivier, saying, “Hey, boss,” and extending his hand for a handshake.
“Knox, how’s it going?”
“Not bad. Did you catch the game last night?”
“I never miss a chance to see you guys hand Nashville their asses.” Olivier gestures at me. “Knox, this is Daphne Barrington. Daph, this is Knox Deveraux, one of the Blaze players.”
“Nice to meet you,” Knox says, shaking my hand and then looking over his shoulder. “My wife Reese is here somewhere. Probably in the kitchen.”
“We’re heading in there to cook chicken. We’ll find her,” Olivier says.
“Okay, see you tonight,” Knox says with a wave.
“You want to come to a hockey game tonight?” Olivier asks me as we walk to the kitchen.
“I’m babysitting my nephews.”
“That’s right. You told me that at lunch the other day, I just forgot.”
Marla opens the door to a walk-in refrigerator. “We’re serving chicken potpie for dinner tonight. There are about a hundred forty chickens over here that need cooked and boned.”
Olivier leans over and whispers in my ear. “You didn’t tell me this would be so dirty.”
“I taped instructions to the cabinet beside the stove,” Marla says. “And you can use one of the wheeled carts to move the chickens into the cooking area of the kitchen. Disinfect all surfaces after. There’s cleaner by the sink in the kitchen. Any questions, just find me.”
“Got it,” I say, nodding.
Marla leaves us alone in the walk-in and Olivier leans down and gives me a quick, soft kiss.
“You ever done this before?” he asks.
“Cooking and boning chickens? I can’t say I have.”
“I helped my mom in the kitchen, but never with this part. I guess we’ll both learn something new today.”
We start loading chickens onto a cart, and I feel Olivier’s gaze on me as we work. Like always, it makes me warm all over. I’m wishing he’d push me up against a wall and fuck my brains out right now, even though I know we can’t actually do that.
At least, not here and not now.
I finish wiping down the last counter and drop my towel into the dirty laundry bin, peeking around the corner to see what Olivier is up to. It looks like he’s still talking to Marla and Reese, who are telling him about their budgets and needs.
He glances up and meets my gaze, a smile tugging on his lips as he excuses himself.
“Sorry I didn’t get to help you finish cleaning up,” he says as he approaches me.
“It’s okay. You did most of the chicken grossness, so let’s call it even.”
It turns out that pulling meat from the bones of a chicken is a hot, sometimes slimy job. I was much slower at it than Olivier. For as much as I’ve thought of him as a member of the elite, he’s actually a hard worker, and he’s efficient.
“I may smell like chicken for the next decade or so,” he says, smelling his hands. “I’ve washed my hands several times since we finished, but it’s still there.”
“We contributed chicken to more than three hundred potpies, though.”
“We did.”
There’s a tightness in my stomach as he steps closer to me, putting his hands on my hips. I put an arm around his neck and run my fingers up into his hair, setting my other palm on his chest. I may not know what I want overall, but I know what I want in this moment.
“I have a couple hours until I have to get ready to go babysit,” I whisper.
