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Playing To Win: The Complete King Brothers Collection (A Contemporary Romance Box Set)

Page 39

by Teagan Kade


  He jumps back in surprise. “Hey, all I wanted to do was walk you back to your car, not receive a vasectomy.”

  Which, of course, instantly has me thinking about his package and what it might feel like in my hand, maybe even my mouth. And that is crazy enough itself, that I’ve become this horny pervert goo- and gah-ing over the pretty boy. It’s not like me at all, but I’ve moved past the exterior now. I’ve seen that behind the oh-so perfect body there may be an actual soul and certainly a degree of sensitivity I could not have imagined. He went above and beyond tonight, had no real cause to help me out.

  I climb inside, Phoenix holding the door open.

  I place my bag on the passenger seat and pull my seatbelt into place. “It’s no Corvette, I know.”

  Phoenix looks down the bodywork. “I’m not even sure it’s a car.”

  I laugh. “It’s the best I can do.”

  “I get it,” he smiles, “and your hustle… It’s a hell of a thing. I’ll help any way I can. You have my word on that.”

  Thank god he can’t see me blushing, can’t see the effect he’s having on me. “Thank you,” I manage to get out, reaching for the door handle, but he keeps the door open.

  “I’m going to need your address, so I can pick you up later.”

  “I’m not sure I can provide that kind of information.” It’s a token protest, makes me sound like I work at the DMV, but he knows he’s going to get it one way or another. I’m not going to cancel. The likelihood of him breaking my heart is high, but I’m smitten, simple as that. I’ve looked into the rabbit hole and all that’s left is to jump in feet first and hope to hell I come out alive.

  “Fine,” I relent, relaying my address.

  I see his smile grow. He nods. “Got it. I’ll see you at eight.”

  God damn it my mouth is dry. “Yeah, see you then.”

  This time he releases the door. I pull it closed and give him the most awkward of handwaves. The Queen of England would be ashamed. I watch him in the rear-view as I drive away, the tall, dominating figure of him fading to black. A premonition of what’s to come?

  I’m not so sure.

  *

  It’s a long drive out to the restaurant. It’s been a while since I’ve been so far past city limits, had almost forgotten there was a world outside of Crestfall. It gives us time to talk. Phoenix doesn’t hold back, discussing his brothers, his relationship with his twin Titus. I had no idea about Titus’s accident, the day-to-day impact it’s had on not just Titus, but Phoenix too.

  “He really can’t remember what happened before the accident?”

  The dark shirt Phoenix is wearing makes him blend into the upholstery of the car. The fit is perfection, looks sewn to show off every bulge and ridge, the contours of his body that want to turn me back into that horny, hormonal teenager eyeing off the bad boy, wondering how I could bend him to my will.

  “Not exactly,” he replies. “Long term Ti is good with, but the last couple of months before he took that ball to the head, nothing, and honestly he’d been acting pretty weird anyhow back then.”

  “I’m sure he’ll get better,” I reassure. “What about Peyton? He married, didn’t he?”

  Phoenix shakes his head, but he’s smiling. His fingers grip and release the top of the steering wheel. “And I grew up thinking miracles were things like water turning to wine. But she’s cool, Erin. If anyone can tame Peyton, it’s her.”

  “Could I?”

  He looks across to me, eyes glinting as a truck passes by. “What?”

  “Tame you?”

  He laughs aloud, looking to the roof of the car momentarily. “You can try.” He sets the indicator. “Here we are.”

  We pull down a narrow road, climbing in elevation until Phoenix makes another turn down a cobblestone driveaway, shifting into reverse and placing his hand behind my headrest, leaning around to look through the back of the car while he parks. I don’t know why this turns me on so much. The car’s got a reversing camera, after all.

  I resist the urge to lean over and undo another button on his shirt, the shadowy planes I can see as he leans toward me are simply not enough.

  He parks and gets out, running around to open my door like a gentleman. “Madame.”

  “Dumbass,” I smile back.

  We walk arm and arm into what at first looks like someone’s home but soon draws out into a large, open-plan restaurant, the lights of Crestfall proper twinkling away in the distance.

  “Wow,” I stammer, because I had no idea this was up here on the mountain.

  “It’s only been open a month,” Phoenix tells me, again reading my mind.

  Someone arrives to take us to our table by the large windows, sleek pendant lighting adding to the mood of modern opulence. I realized when I arrived home today I had nothing even remotely sexy in my wardrobe. Honestly, you’d think I was an angsty sixteen-year-old boy if you looked inside, but I wasn’t going to be defeated. I made a quick trip down to Hot Zipper, an old thrift shop on Main Street, found a beautiful, vintage velvet dress in iridescent blue. The slit in the side was a bit high for my liking, but I noted Phoenix’s look of approval when I stepped out of the car, saw the way his eyes hovered and danced looking for any exposed skin.

  My hair’s in an up-do, the fanciest style I know. I wouldn’t know the first thing about braiding or make-up, any of those greater feminine skills a mother hands down to her daughter. I had Gordy… and Gordy has neither hair nor need for facial products.

  A waitress arrives sharply dressed. She is wearing make-up, looks like she fell off the nearest catwalk, but Phoenix only seems to have eyes for me.

  “Are there any dietary considerations for the table?” the waitress asks, fluttering her lashes at Phoenix.

  He puts his hand out to me. “Heather?”

  I shake my head, unsure what to do with my hands. I end up slipping them under the table to rest in my lap. “No, thank you.”

  She darts off.

  I look quizzically to Phoenix. “Don’t we need menus?”

  “It’s a set menu,” he replies. “Five-course degustation.”

  I attempt to hide my surprise and excitement. “Oh. That sounds… nice.”

  We’re deep in conversation when the first course arrives, the waitress relaying it’s “river oyster with truffle-snowed potato glass, finger lime, and apple gel.”

  Phoenix, no doubt used to such things, simply nods, the waitress evaporating.

  “Dig in,” he smiles.

  I take the nearest knife and fork, because there are a shitload of them, and look how to approach the plate, the presentation of which is more in line with abstract art than food.

  I see Phoenix has picked up the shell the oyster is in, placing it to his mouth and letting it slide home. He smacks his lips. “Delicious.”

  I laugh and place down the knife and fork, taking his lead.

  In fact, having never experienced a meal like this, it’s far more fun than I expected, a kind of culinary theme park ride, each dish more wild than the last.

  What I imagine to be the main arrives, a sous-vide lamb backstrap with mushroom puree, sauté champignon, and pistachio praline. I moan aloud from the first bite, the buttery smoothness of it all coating my mouth.

  Phoenix is smiling. “I take it you approve?”

  I try not to speak with my mouth full. “It’s amazing.”

  “Did you ever make these kinds of dishes when you were at culinary school?”

  I stop to pick up my glass of matching wine, probably my third, though I notice Phoenix has only had one. “Sometimes, but our budget was,” I pause thinking how best to put it, “limited.”

  He holds up a slice of the lamb. “Is this well prepared?”

  “It’s the backstrap,” I tell him, “from the back of the animal near the spine, cut from the middle of the loin. It’s lean, free from fat and gristle, which also means each individual portion goes a long way, and yes, it’s prepared especially well here, the wat
er bath providing the kind of plate-to-plate consistency a restaurant of this quality would demand.”

  Phoenix looks impressed. “Okay, Julia Child. No need to show off now.”

  I lean forward a little. “And we haven’t even had dessert.”

  I see a man step up to the table beside Phoenix with the waitress, clearly a chef. He takes off his hat, looks young for a chef at a restaurant like this. Phoenix notices him and reaches for his arm, pulling him forward. “Heather, this is my good friend Campbell Smyth, head chef here.”

  Head chef. I’m dumbstruck, heat again rising to my cheeks. “So nice to meet you,” I blabber. I look down at my plate. “The food is incredible.”

  “Thank you,” Campbell smiles.

  “You know,” says Phoenix. “Heather is a cook too.”

  Campbell looks back to me. “Oh? Where are you?”

  I realize he’s asking me which restaurant I’m at. “I, ah—”

  But Phoenix comes to my aid. “She’s shopping around, actually, was looking to get a food truck, keep it local.”

  Campbell smiles. “Sounds wonderful.”

  “Campbell and I grew up together playing basketball,” Phoenix tells me, “though we always knew he was destined for greater things.”

  “Says the King headed for the NBA,” Campbell cuts in. “I’ve seen you out there, my friend. You’re a superstar.”

  “Well,” Phoenix says, “you keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll do my best to keep scoring.”

  Campbell takes his cue, smiling one last time to me. “Nice to meet you, Heather. Let me know if you’re ever looking for work.”

  “I will,” I reply.

  I have to take a deep breath when he’s gone, lowering my voice. “That was the head chef?”

  Phoenix nods, already back to eating. “Yeah, nice guy, huh?”

  I’m so not used to this, flying in these circles.

  Phoenix points down at what’s left of his lamb. “I mean, I wish I could cook like this.”

  “You can’t cook?”

  He looks up. “Like I said, Chef comes in on Sunday, preps it all, or we order in.”

  “I could teach you a few things,” I offer playfully, avoiding his eyes lest my own betray me.

  He leans back. “Could you now?”

  “Sure,” I add casually. “I love food and I like to share that love. Everyone should know how to cook at least one good dish.”

  “I accept,” says Phoenix, a little too quick. “When do we start?”

  And I genuinely don’t know if he’s just humoring me or using it to get into my pants, not that I even care right now. I think I’d even be okay with that, having decided to let him.

  Eventually.

  Phoenix takes care of the bill, won’t even let me see it.

  I can’t seem to shut up on the way home, gushing over the intricacies of each dish, the masterful preparation, the finesse of it all. I thought you could only get this kind of food in the city, but I was wrong. What Campbell has created out there, on the mountain, is something truly special.

  Phoenix listens, adding what he can here and there, letting me babble on. “So you enjoyed it then?”

  I reach across and punch him playfully in the arm, realizing we’re pulling up to my apartment building.

  I’m flooded with a sudden nervous energy. Everything is telling me to invite him up. It would be the perfect end to the night, but instead I lean across and kiss him on the cheek, pulling back before he has a chance to take it further. “Thank you,” I tell him, the clean, menthol taste of his skin on my lips. “I had a great night.”

  I can tell he’s surprised this is all he’s getting and that is somehow even more of a turn-on.

  “My pleasure,” he replies smoothly, still holding the top of the steering wheel with one hand.

  He watches me get out, stopping to let his window down when I lean myself against the passenger door. Hell, let him get a little glimpse of my cleavage, a small gift to take home tonight.

  “It’s my day off tomorrow,” I tell him. “Come over for brunch. I’ll make something special.”

  “I imagine you will,” he smiles.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I turn and strut to the doorway, taking my time, letting my hips do the work and trying my best to figure out when that poor street urchin and this woman, this femme fatale, suddenly traded places.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PHOENIX

  I arrive ten minutes early to Heather’s apartment complex, taking the stairs two at a time to reach her floor. That kiss—or peck, rather—last night barely whetted my appetite. Driving home with a second gearstick in your pants isn’t fun for anyone.

  I adjust my hair and take a second to compose myself before knocking on her door. I hear footsteps, the anticipation and energy that’s pumping through me ratcheting up to new levels.

  The door pulls open and she’s standing there in black jeans and a white Rolling Stones tee, the famous tongue and lips band logo barely visible it’s so worn. Her hair’s up in a ponytail, backlit into a dark umber by the morning light.

  “You look incredible,” I tell her, and I mean every word.

  She pinches the shirt. “This old thing? I’ve had it since I was fifteen.” She bites her lower lip, sultry eyes surveying me. “Teenage me would have gone completely crazy for you.”

  I lean against the doorframe. “And adult you? What does she think?”

  She taps her cheek. “She’s thinking ‘Did he come here to cook or stand outside looking pretty all day?’”

  “Better invite me inside then.”

  She stands aside. “Do come in.”

  I step past her, taking in that woody, floral scent of hers I’ve become so familiar with. It’s the scent of the forest floor after rain, of sex in the dirt, and it’s making my cock rock hard.

  Heather’s apartment is small, which I expected given this part of town. There’s a band poster or two on the walls, an old record player, a shelf made up of wooden planks and cinder blocks taking up the opposing wall. On the other there are books stacked up from the floor—cookbooks, I realize, as I get closer. Apart from that, it’s largely bare.

  She whips past me towards the kitchen. “I know, I know. It’s not much, but it’s all I need.”

  The kitchen’s about an eighth the size of the one back at casa de King. I pick up a random utensil from the counter, holding it up. “Will we be using this today?”

  Heather laughs, taking a chalk-colored apron from the back of the pantry door and tossing me another. “Not unless you like your eggs minced.”

  I place the utensil down, holding the apron out. It reads: ‘The last time I cooked hardly anyone got sick’. “Reassuring,” I muse, trying to work out how to put it on.

  Heather comes around behind me, helping me put the larger loop over my head, tying the two straps behind my back. She comes around in front admiring her handiwork. “Gordy gave me this one, but I’ve got to say, it doesn’t look so bad on you.”

  “I feel fucking ridiculous.”

  She directs my attention to the stovetop. “Which means you’re ready. Shall we begin?”

  I could stand here admiring her all day, just watch the way the sun and shadows move over her skin, lighting each perfect part of her.

  It soon occurs to me Heather’s an excellent teacher. She’s calm and patient, even after my many, many attempts to crack an egg.

  “It’s not a basketball,” she tells me, selecting an egg from the basket. “It needs gentle hands. “You can be gentle when you want to, can’t you?”

  I maintain eye contact. “I can be whatever you want.”

  I never thought frying an egg would be so difficult, but I’m not about to give up either. It takes a while, quite a few yolks, but I master it eventually, even managing to crack the egg with one hand.

  Heather laughs. “The little flourish thing you’re doing with your hips there? It’s not required.�


  I hump the countertop. “Don’t they say all good food should be made with love?”

  She turns up the heat on the stove. “Yes, love, not the culinary version of Playboy.”

  I pick up another egg, eyeballing it. “Your loss, buddy.”

  Heather slides the fried eggs off, cleaning out the pan. “You ready to step it up?”

  “Yes, sir, boss lady.”

  She smiles at that. “How to poach an egg 101. Let’s go.”

  Turns out poaching an egg is quite the task. It would be easier if Heather wasn’t so close, the sheer proximity of her body distraction enough.

  “Yes, stir the water, that’s right. Let the vinegar do its work and just crack that egg right on in.”

  This time I manage to get the egg in. “But it’s breaking apart.”

  “Keep watching,” she tells me. “The key is to use the freshest eggs you can find.”

  I look around. “I don’t see any chickens.”

  “Gordy has the chickens, but right now I need you to concentrate. See?”

  She’s right. The egg white is wrapping around the yolk.

  The timer dings. “Now, take that slotted spoon and gently scoop it out.” She slides a plate across with sourdough toast and slices of avocado on it. “Place it right here on top.”

  I use the slotted spoon, somewhat awkwardly, to scoop out the egg and do as she instructed, the spherical eggy package almost slipping off but somehow remaining in place. I take a step back with my hands raised. “Holy shit. I did it.”

  She hands me a knife. “Now cut into the egg.”

  I make a cut and golden yolk spills out over the avocado and toast. “My god, that is beautiful. Who needs Playboy when you’ve got this?”

  Heather gives me a small clap. “Well done, chef. Well done.” She turns to me. “Hungry?”

  I don’t know if it’s the elation of actually getting this down or the fact Heather’s standing there looking so picture perfect, but I cannot take a second longer without her.

  I reach for her face and bring her lips to mine.

  She’s tentative at first, cautious, but soon her hands find the back of my neck and she returns the kiss with equal vigor. The heat from the front of her thighs, the soft press of her breasts, a hint of salt on her lips, her tongue… I feel and taste and draw it all in until the world is lost and being with her is all that matters.

 

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