“Why not Declan since he’s the oldest?”
“He’s a great chef. Not good enough in Dad’s eyes. And you already know about Weston. He’s a gifted pastry chef, but like me, it’s not his passion. He does it more to honor Mom’s memory than anything else.”
My stomach grumbles and I groan. I’d almost forgotten I hadn’t had anything to eat since before lunch. And I’m too tired to get off the sofa and make something.
“You didn’t eat? That gumbo is everything.”
“Gumbo is a special occasion food and we make it every day. You get sick of it really quick.”
He launches himself off the sofa and walks into my kitchen to wash his hands in the sink.
My apartment is: one average-sized bedroom, a decent bathroom, living room and kitchen. The latter two rooms are part of an open plan so there’s only a counter separating the two. My kitchen is the biggest room in the apartment, and it’s full of every gadget a modern chef could want in a home cooking space. I use this kitchen on my days off to test recipes that Lillie will never let us use.
Knox opens my fridge and moves items around, pulling out a small container and lifting it in the air while still examining the fridge’s contents. “Béchamel?”
“Tis.”
He rummages a few moments longer then comes out balancing clarified butter, Dijon mustard, Gruyère, the container of béchamel, and a couple slices of ham. He sets them on the counter, grabs bread from the box, then a pan from a cabinet.
Before he continues, he unbuttons his shirt, staring at me the whole time. It’s almost as though he’s seen my dreams and means to give me a show. But the thing is, I get it. He knows I don’t have an apron just as I’m sure he doesn’t either, and getting his fancy shirt stained isn’t in the plan. I don’t cook in anything I don’t want ruined either. He pulls it off and places it on the back of one of the stools, then sets back to work.
My new favorite thing is watching Knox Everheart grate cheese. In my kitchen.
His body puts my dreams to shame. He still has on an undershirt, but it’s thin and doesn’t hide one single muscle jumping and flexing as he grates. Another huge difference—tattoos on his chest. I had no idea.
When he turns to the stove to heat the pan, I nearly faint. I sit up straight because I am no longer tired. My senses are firing on all cylinders, and my nipples definitely have a mind of their own, hardening under my jacket. Thank goodness I was too tired to take it off.
His chest is thrown out, his arms extended back, perfect posture on full display. His back is…beautiful. Completely unmarred, tanned, and jacked. Muscular broad shoulders flow into a trim waist and tight butt.
He turns back my way to assemble the sandwich and smirks. “You have a little something on your chin, Amber.”
I won’t give him the satisfaction of checking for drool because I know I haven’t lost complete control. Yet. Instead I muster a weak, “You wish, Everheart.”
He lifts one side of his mouth into a half smile and glances at me with hooded eyes before turning back to the pan. While it’s sizzling in the skillet, he heats the broiler. Then tops the sandwich with more cheese and béchamel, setting it under the fire.
Knox pulls down a plate and slides on his creation, setting it on the counter.
“Croque monsieur, madam.”
I go to the sink and wash my hands, then remove my jacket, throwing it in the laundry closet off the kitchen. I’m wearing a gold T-shirt underneath, and it’s probably sweat-stained but I don’t even care. I’m hungry and horny, but I only plan to solve one of those problems.
Knox is putting everything back and washing the pan when I sit in front of his offering.
I take a bite of the gooey piece of heaven. “Thank you. It’s mind-numbing.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it.” He rounds the counter and takes the chair next to me, pulling his shirt back on.
“What are your tattoos?”
He stops buttoning, looking down. “It’s a clock set in a tree that grows on the land where my mother was born with the words Amor di madre, amore senza limiti.”
“Why did you come here tonight?”
“Because you’re the only one who understands.”
I nod because there really isn’t anything else to say. Through all of our fighting and competing, we always understood each other. That’s why it was so easy to get under one another’s skin.
He stands and walks to the door.
“Knox.”
He stops but doesn’t turn.
“Come back anytime you need to.”
He nods and goes through.
*
Mama’s feeling better and we’re back in a flow at the restaurant with everyone present and accounted for. I haven’t seen or heard from Knox since he fed me a grilled cheese three weeks ago.
I smoothed things over with Mike, telling him the truth that Knox stopped by out of the blue to apologize. He reiterated that he thinks there’s more to the Rowan/Knox story and that what Knox did by answering my phone was a dick move somehow proving his point. For what it’s worth, I don’t agree with Mike. Knox and I have something, but it’s not a mutual attraction. It’s something else that I can’t quite put my finger on, and it’s been brewing for years. Out of everything that Knox said that night three weeks ago, one question keeps bouncing around in my head. Do you want me to fix it? What did he mean?
On the other hand, Mike and I have been texting daily, learning more about each other. Turns out he started his family restaurant and both his parents, two sisters, and brother work there. A couple cousins too.
