by Jordyn White
He nods slightly, like he understands my torn desires better than I think. “Then you’d better get going.” He says it gently, but there’s a firmness to his voice, too. It is a command that will not be questioned. He just brought an end to any wondering, or fantasizing, about what happens next.
What happens next is I go home.
Disappointment pools at the pit of my stomach.
Well, I got what I wanted, didn’t I? I can’t just say this is only a job. I need to act like it.
“Right.”
We go our separate ways, him to his seat with his usual suave, and me to my purse and keys on the far counter. My legs are a little soft, like half-cooked noodles. I’m already imagining what would’ve happened if he’d kissed me instead. The image is so strong I can almost feel the stubble against my chin. I can definitely feel the swooping in my chest.
Still, it’s better that I’m leaving. It is. He may be the most intriguing man I’ve ever met, but he’s my boss and that’s all there is to it.
Just before I enter the hallway, I say, “Goodnight, Mr. Rivers.”
“Emma.” That commanding voice again.
I stop and face him, hoping he will summon me back to him and hating myself for it.
Eyes on his plate, he presses his napkin to his lips with both hands and sets it on the counter. He leans forward slightly, resting on both elbows.
He looks me in the eye, and it is our strongest connection yet. In this moment, he’s not my boss. He’s not Mr. Rayce Rivers, King of the luxury resort on the hill. He’s a man, one I feel I know better than makes any sense.
“You will call me Rayce,” he says quietly but firmly, “or call me nothing. That is non-negotiable. Do you understand?”
I press my lips together. I nod.
“Thank you. Good night, Emma.”
“Good night.”
I silently go down the hallway and let myself out of the house, wishing I called him Rayce like I wanted to, and leaving him to finish his dinner alone.
Chapter 11
Rayce
In the five minutes Emma and I were in the same room together, I went from one desire to the next so quickly it’s a wonder I didn’t get whiplash. I wanted to run my hands over every curve on her body. I wanted to eat dinner with her and ask all the things I want to know about her. I wanted to pull her into my arms and suck on that full, bottom lip. I wanted to say, “Stop fucking around. We both know where this is going.” But I also want her to come to me without all the guilt and hesitation I see in those lovely blue eyes.
When she was standing right in front of me, so clearly torn, and looking up at me with that trusting, open expression that made my heart squeeze, I longed to give her a kiss that would’ve said what I was feeling: I promise not to hurt you. Come away with me.
I wanted to do everything except what I did do. It just about killed me to send her off. There will come a time when I kiss Emma Swanson, but that time was not tonight.
I eat a few bites more after she leaves, but the kitchen feels more quiet and empty than it usually does. The ticking of the clock on the dining room wall punctuates the air with relentless tenacity.
I rub a thumb along the edge of the woven maroon placemat. It’s part of the stuff my sister picked out when she insisted I “set up house like a real person.” I don’t think they’ve ever been used.
Emma put a lot of thought into giving me a beautiful place to eat. It seems a shame to abandon it.
But I can’t stop hearing that damned clock.
Setting my fork and knife on my plate, I pick it up and leave the rest on the counter, including the wine. Before leaving the kitchen, I tuck my phone in my pocket. Because I never, ever go anywhere without my phone. Plate in one hand and briefcase in the other, I make my way through the living room and foyer to my office.
It has wood paneling, mahogany furniture, and a large window that keeps the room from being too dark. It’s a more welcoming place than the stark emptiness of the rest of the house. Besides, it has a good history. This is where I do my best work.
Though, as I pour myself some brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, and settle in at the computer with the scent of Emma’s fine cooking in the air, I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to concentrate on work tonight, regardless of where I’m sitting.
Chapter 12
Emma
I’m working my way through the aisles of the upscale grocery store close to Rayce’s house, and irritated by everything. The wine bottle clinking in the cart. The miles and miles of artisan cheese you’d never see in my local store, with price tags that only make them affordable because I’m buying them for the boss.
Even the fact that the cart’s wheels are apparently perfectly aligned and don’t squeak or rattle at all.
Who knew grocery shopping could be so luxurious?
Faux wooden shelving for boxed goods? Check.
Classical music piped in over the sound system? Check.
Five hundred dollar bottles of wine? Check.
I was tempted to pick that one up with his credit card, just to spite him, but he probably wouldn’t care. I doubt Mr. Rayce Rivers would look twice at that bill.
All he cares about is making sure I prepare dinner for two. That’s what his text said earlier. Please prepare dinner for two.
It’s not that I care that he obviously has a date. I mean, it’s Friday night and he’s Mr. Rayce Rivers, Swan Pointe’s most eligible bachelor. Why shouldn’t he have a date?
What did I expect? Since that first dinner on Wednesday, our interactions have been brief enough that I could almost believe this is just business, if my boss weren’t such a flirt. Though, I’ve seen him in such small doses I’m not sure it counts. I didn’t see him at all this morning. Not that I care.
I toss a bundle of garlic cloves into the basket, where it rolls and rolls backward until it hits the paper bag of artisan rolls that are so fresh they’re still warm.
No, I don’t care that he has a date. I care that he’s a cad. As if I didn’t already know. I wonder if his hot date knows how much he’s been flirting with his newest employee lately.
“Eventually,” I mutter under my breath. He thinks he’ll kiss me eventually? Oh no, sir.
I cross my arms, eyeing the heads of red leaf lettuce. All of which look absolutely fucking perfect. Do employees hover nearby waiting for the edge of a leaf to brown so they can ship it off to the stores in my neighborhood?
I wonder what that job pays. Lettuce shipper.
I grab a head, shove it into a bag, and try to chastise myself. Again. Because nothing about this situation is irritating me more than the fact that it’s irritating me. I don’t want it to irritate me.
But every time I think, I’m not irritated or I don’t care what he does or It’s not any of my business, I only get more irritated.
It’s like my body knows I’m lying to myself and won’t stand for it.
I reach for a bundle of asparagus just as the misting system turns on, drenching my hand. I snatch the bundle away and shake it, sending the cold droplets flying. I wrangle it into the plastic bag, which is not cooperating, and toss it into the cart.
Stupid, rich asparagus.
Chapter 13
Rayce
At first, I don’t notice what Emma’s done.
When I come home and into the kitchen, all I see is her. She’s at the counter filling two little burgundy ramekins with what looks like a yellow cream of some sort. Her hair is pulled into a soft knot at the base of her neck, and a loose strand is resting on her shoulder.
I don’t know if it’s crazy, but I’m in love with this woman’s neck.
She’s wearing a cute burgundy top that flairs at the waist, over black skinny jeans. This no uniform policy was a good plan.
“Evening, Emma.” I set my briefcase on a stool at the bar.
She’s leaning over the little ramekins, focused on her task apparently, and doesn’t turn or pause in her movements at
all. “Evening.”
Other than that first time, she still hasn’t called me Rayce. I said it was Rayce or nothing, and apparently she’s chosen nothing. Not that she’s had much opportunity for either. I’ve purposely given her some space so she has a chance to adjust to things, and maybe want what’s going on between us more than she wants to resist it.
Tonight I’ll find out if I’ve waited long enough. It’s sure as hell been long enough for me. The last two days have felt like an eternity.
There’s a rich, meaty scent in the air that gets my stomach rumbling. “Smells delicious.”
“Thank you.” Again, she doesn’t look in my direction. Her tone seems a bit tart, too. I head in her direction, intending to find out what’s wrong, but now the dining room is in my line of sight again and I see what I missed before.
“What’s all this?”
I wander into the room. The table is set with my fine china—another Lizzy purchase—covered with an actual tablecloth, and sprouting an impressive arrangement of pink and white roses smattered with day lilies and chrysanthemums.
“It’s for your date.” She zooms by, a ramekin in each hand, and sets each on the table with a smart thud.
“My date?”
“I thought things should look nice.” She faces me at last, clasping her hands in front of her and raising her chin. “If you’re going to have a woman for dinner you should attempt to impress her.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. Oh, this is adorable.
She gives my emerging grin an impatient glance, then continues. “I’ve prepared cinnamon and almond crusted roasted duck, steamed asparagus with gorgonzola cream sauce, and chilled beat salad.”
“Wow.”
“The salad tastes better than it sounds.” With that she zips past me, back into the kitchen.
I follow her, fully smiling now. “That sounds wonderful, Emma. Thank you. I have a question for you though.”
“Hm.” She’s back to not looking at me, pulling a covered bowl from the refrigerator.
“I told you to prepare dinner for two and you thought that meant I have a date?”
She straightens and blinks at me, the refrigerator still standing open. “What?”
“Why did you assume dinner for two meant a date?”
“Uh...” A beautiful blush is creeping over her cheekbones. The refrigerator is still standing open.
“How did you know it’s not my brother?”
She glances at the huge bouquet of flowers on the table. “Oh god.”
“Or a business colleague.”
Her eyes leap to mine. She’s properly mortified now. “Oh shit. I mean, sorry. It’s not is it?”
I laugh. I’m tempted to torture her a bit more, but I can’t bring myself to do it. “No.”
She drops her hands, still holding the bowl. “Well, who is it? Why do you look so happy?”
“Why shouldn’t I be? You thought I was bringing a woman over here and got jealous.”
“I did not!”
“Oh no? So you won’t be happy when I tell you that my dinner companion tonight is you?”
She blinks, the blush on her cheeks deepening. “I... huh?” Her beautiful face goes through a series of emotions: shock, embarrassment, pleasure, faux irritation.
“You are happy.” I draw closer to her.
“I’m...” she glances at me, clearly wondering what my intentions are as I come nearer, and trying to decide if she should be wary... or yield. “I’m... only here to cook your dinner.”
I take the bowl from her hands, which are slightly chilled because she’s still standing in front of the open refrigerator.
“And I wasn’t jealous.”
“Uh huh.” I set the bowl on the nearby counter.
“Why would I be?”
I go back to her.
“We’re not in a relationship. I mean, obviously. So, no. No. I wasn’t—”
I come up right in front of her, my arm brushing her shoulder as I grasp the door behind her. She stops talking and we both stand still. That little vein is fluttering at the base of her neck.
Her eyes are on my lips. I’m looking at hers, too. I’m dying to know what she tastes like. “We can’t do this,” she says softly.
“It’s just dinner, Emma.”
Her eyes slowly raise to mine. She doesn’t know if she should argue or not.
“What’s the harm of dinner?”
“The harm is I don’t think I can trust you.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Why? What do you think I’ll do?” I move half an inch closer, wanting so badly to close the gap between us.
“I... think you’ll kiss me.”
I keep my eyes on hers. She’s no fool. “I promise I won’t kiss you tonight. Is that better?”
Neither one of us move. She glances at my lips again. She nods slightly, like she’s not sure that makes things better at all.
I smile and straighten, taking her by the hip and gently tugging her out of the way as I close the door. Her cheeks bloom red. A timer goes off on the oven but she doesn’t react to it.
“Now where do you want this bowl?” I grab it and gesture toward the table, grinning at her flustered expression. “On the table?”
She bats the loose strand of hair off her shoulder. “Oh, give me that. Go clean up.”
She grabs the bowl and puts it back on the counter like she can’t decide where it goes.
I laugh. “Did you just send me off to wash my hands like a little kid?”
The timer beeps again.
“Seriously. Go away. You’re distracting me.” She hustles to the oven and opens the door.
I grab my briefcase off the stool. “You’re staying for dinner, right?”
She ducks her head, trying to hide her smile. “If you insist. Go on now. If this duck burns it’ll be on your head.”
Chapter 14
Emma
We’re sitting at the table, leaning forward on our elbows, talking and picking at the remnants of our dinner.
“This was really fantastic, Emma. Thank you. The table’s set so nice, too.”
He gives me a sly grin, and I prepare myself to get teased. God, I was so mortified when I realized what I’d done. But, I guess it’s turned out all right. He wasn’t upset, and what’s the harm of dinner? He hasn’t tried to kiss me once. In fact, it started out almost business like because we finally got to talk about menu options. Since then it’s been an enjoyable conversation, going easily from one topic to the next.
The food was pretty damned good too, if I do say so myself.
“So many nice touches.” He gestures to his ramekin. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s yours.”
“It is?” He picks it up to examine it more closely.
I laugh. “Don’t you go into your kitchen at all?”
“Of course I do. It’s where the Coca Puffs are.”
He sets it back down and steals a bite-sized piece of roasted duck, right off the platter. “I shouldn’t eat any more, but I can’t get enough of this duck.”
“Better than Coca Puffs?”
“Better than Fruity Pebbles, even.”
“Wow. I guess I scored a home run.” He winks at me and I smile back. God, it really has been such a nice evening. “Thanks for...”
I feel the blush rising on my cheeks. I lean on my palm and just smile at him. I can’t seem to finish my sentence.
He nods, pleased. “You’re welcome. All week I’ve been enjoying your phenomenal cooking and not happy about the fact that you weren’t able to enjoy it yourself.”
How sweet.
He swipes another piece of duck off the platter. “That’s what I don’t understand about someone cooking your meals for you.”
I cock my head at him. He’s no stranger to people working for him. Why should hiring a personal chef be any different? What was his reluctance to the idea? “Well, restaurants cook meals for people.”
“
Not in their homes though.”
Hmm, that’s true. “But you have people clean your home.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Why not?”
He eyes the platter of duck, then sits back as if to distance himself from the temptation. He takes longer to think about his answer than I expected. Finally, he looks at me and says bluntly. “Meals are supposed to be about family.”
“Ah.”
Dammit, I was right that he doesn’t like eating alone. I hate to think of it.
“When I was growing up, both my parents cooked. We had to as well, or at least help.”
“You? Cook?”
He grins and shrugs. “I know some stuff. I just don’t enjoy it as much as other people seem to and I’m happy to pick something up, so why bother? Anyway, we’d help make dinner then sit at the table and eat together. That was something my parents insisted on. Even when we were teens and our schedules got more hectic, the rule was, you never eat alone.”
Wow. I couldn’t count the number of times I ate alone growing up.
“Even if it was just me and Mom at Guido’s after a track meet. No eating alone.”
His eyes roam over the flowers on the table. He has the soft, far-away look of someone reliving nice memories, but with a dark edge to them. I’ve heard about their parents’ untimely deaths, but not until this moment have I felt any pain over it. I hate that he’s hurting.
“My parents were busy, but they always stopped for dinner.” He looks at me. “For us. There were times it was fun because we were talking and laughing, and times my siblings and I were acting like brats and squabbling and driving our parents crazy. But still. Dinnertime was sacred. We could count on having their attention one hundred percent.”
I want so badly to put my hand over his, to chase away the shadow I see lingering over those memories.
“I guess that’s why the idea of a hired person in my home making my dinners has never appealed to me.”
“That makes sense.” We hold each other’s gazes, and the outside world and this crazy situation we’re in disappears. It’s only me and him, and me wanting him to know I see his pain. “I’m sorry you lost them so early.”
