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I’m too awkward. And too honest.
“It’s pretty hard to ruin a rib eye.” I lift the lid to give them a flip, taking several swift, smoky breaths while I have the chance.
How does it feel cooler over here by the grill?
“And yet, somehow I manage.” Sullivan shoots me a mischievous look. “That being said…would you like some help?”
I can’t help but laugh. It’s his delivery—the way he knows he’s outrageous. “After that endorsement? How could I say no?”
“I think I can be trusted…under the supervision of a professional.”
I am a professional. A goddamned professional.
I will channel my inner Gordon Ramsay. He wouldn’t put up with Sullivan’s shit.
“Wash your hands, then, and grab an apron.”
Leaving the grill, I follow Sullivan into the kitchen.
Sullivan did not own any aprons before my arrival, so he grabs one of the two I brought with me. Unfortunately for him, it’s the apron my mom sewed for me when I first started cooking, so it’s pink and frilly. Give me a break, I was only eight at the time.
“Pink’s your color,” I tease.
“Is it?” He turns to shake his booty at me. “I was afraid it was a bit revealing.”
His butt is, of course, covered by his trousers, but with the apron tied around his waist, it’s framed in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the fact that Sullivan Rivas has a fantastic ass.
When he turns around again, my eyes are still staring down. It’s incredibly obvious as I drag them back up again. Sullivan laughs at me.
This is outrageous. I’m supposed to be the chef here.
“Quit flashing that thing around and get to work. Can you chop a tomato?”
“Sure.” Sullivan grins. “If you don’t mind bits of finger in it.”
I slide the knife out of the block. “You’re making me nervous…”
He comes close to take it from my hand.
“Am I?” he growls right by my ear.
His hand rests heavy over mine. His breath slips down the neck of my shirt. All the little hairs stand up on my arm, and I know he can see it.
Sullivan never plays fair.
I watch him cut through the tomato, which takes more effort than it should because his knives are dull.
His technique is awful. I have to fix it, it’s painful to watch.
“Like this…” I put my hand over his, on top of the handle. “With a chef’s knife, you want to rock the blade…”
Sullivan already took off his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. His body heat pumps through his thin dress shirt like it’s tissue, like it’s not even there.
His scent mixes with the smell of grilled meat and sweet pineapple. I must still be in werewolf mode because my mouth is watering…
I think of his bed, of the exact feel of his sheets.
I remember how it felt, to be wrapped in his scent…
