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Do. Not. Kiss. Her.
Manoeuvring her so she—and her luscious mouth—faced Fake Sam instead of him, Rafe stood close behind her. Close enough to smell her apple-scented shampoo. Close enough to feel her tremble as he wrapped his arms around her and leaned down to speak softly in her ear.
Close enough to wish he’d kept his big mouth shut.
“You’re a chef, Jane,” he said, sliding his hands down her arms and showing her how to grip the blade. “Your knife is an extension of you. It does whatyoutell it to. This is no different.”
“It’s very different, thank you very much. I don’t usually hold my knives by the blade.”
“You also don’t usually throw them at arseholes.”
Jane snorted. “You’ve obviously never worked in a Michelin-starred kitchen before.”
Oliver groaned impatiently. “Just throw it already.”
“Quiet.” Toby.
“Or we’ll tieyouto the hay bales instead.” Paul.
“When did this become Pick-on-Ollie Day?” Ollie.
“When is itnotPick-on-Ollie Day?” Henry. Followed by snickering and the sound of a high-five. Probably Charlie.
Ignoring their audience, Rafe continued speaking soft and low in Jane’s ear. “Plant your feet, one foot forwards.” He nudged her left foot with his boot. “Arm straight back, elbow bent, wrist curled.” He bent her arm into position. “Now, don’t let go of the blade until your hand is aligned with your arm and your arm is pointing where you want the knife to go.”
Jane twisted a little in his arms and looked up at him, her gaze questioning. “How do you know so much about throwing knives?”
“Who do you think taught Ollie?” he said.
Oliver laughed. “You? Teach me? That’s a hoot.”
Rafe glared at his younger brother over the top of Jane’s head, then leaned down again. “Also, should you somehow manage to hit Ollie,” he whispered, his lips curling into a grin as they brushed the shell of her ear, “I’ll eat your pussy every night for a month.”
A breathy laugh had her shaking in his arms, but he felt the last of her tension ease out of her.
Stepping back and giving her space, Rafe watched Jane throw the knife again and even whooped and applauded along with everyone else when it sliced right through Fake Sam’s crotch.
“Yes!” she cried out, throwing her hands in the air in victory. “Take that, you slimy prick. Quick, give me another one.”
Two more knives were thrown, one stabbing into Fake Sam’s thigh and the other slicing through his armpit.
“Nicely done,” Rafe said with a tip of his head, adding his praise to that of his family’s as they showered Jane in compliments.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said to the crowd, dipping down in a curtsey. “I’m here all week.” Then she marched over to Oliver and punched him in the arm.
“What was that for?” Ollie yelped, rubbing his bicep.
“For… trying to rush perfection,” she said, flipping her long ginger hair over her shoulder. “Obviously.”
But when she looked back at Rafe, he saw the raw need in her gaze and wondered not for the first time,What the hell am I doing?
Chapter Four
The Great Wedding Dress Burning turned out to be, well, pretty anticlimactic actually.
The fabric it was made from and the age of the thing meant it burned itself out in less than three minutes.
Not even enough time to toast the marshmallows Paul and Sophie had brought back from their morning run into town—which was probably a good thing considering the plume of thick black smoke and acrid stink of chemicals that had enveloped the dress within seconds of meeting the match.
