“I’ll make you a fan,” she proclaimed proudly, taking his hand. “Come on. I’ll make you a treat.”
He protested, digging his feet in for a moment. “Today’s about your day of rest, Gretchen. I don’t want you waiting on me.”
She rolled her eyes, a semblance of her normal attitude returning. “Cooking’s not a chore, silly. It’s fun. Now, come on.”
***
Gretchen was right—she could make a mean omelet, and even he, who normally didn’t eat breakfast, cleaned his plate. She didn’t stop with the omelet. Before he could even suggest otherwise, she was preparing a breakfast smoothie and then chopping potatoes for home fries.
This kitchen, she told him, was a shame to waste. So she talked and told him about recipes and things her mother had cooked for them when they were children. She seemed to glow with internal peace while she turned on the oven and picked an overripe banana off the counter, then began hunting for bowls. “I swear, Eldon lets most of this food go to waste. I’m going to make some muffins for the cleaning crew. It seems a shame not to use up these groceries.” She paused for a moment, then tilted her head at him. “This is lame, isn’t it?”
He was surprised by the sudden shyness in her voice. “What do you mean?”
She gestured at the ingredients spread on the marble countertops. “Me. Cooking. You think it’s stupid and you’re probably bored.”
“Not at all.” It was the truth, too. Gretchen in the kitchen seemed to be a whirling dervish of ideas. “I like watching you work. I don’t mind.”
She gave a wry, self-deprecating snort and began to peel the ripe bananas, dropping them into a bowl. “That’s funny. You never want to watch me write.”
“You don’t look as happy when you write,” he pointed out, reaching over to snag a chunk of banana and tossing it into his mouth. “You look happy now.”
Gretchen gave him an almost shy smile, her gaze on the bowl in front of her. “Writing’s my job. I don’t do it because I love it. It just pays the bills.” She picked up a small bit of banana clinging to the edge of the bowl and nudged it back with the rest. “I thought when I first started that writing would be an amazing job. Spend all day in your pajamas and no one to answer to but yourself, right?”
“I suppose.” Years of business had taught him that there was always someone to answer to. He didn’t correct her, though, because he liked hearing her thoughts and perspective on things.
“Yeah, well, I get to spend all day in my pajamas, but it seems like I have more bosses and deadlines than ever before. And I’m not crazy about the work. Like . . . not at all.” She frowned to herself and grabbed the potato masher, then began to vigorously smash the bananas in the bowl. “I kind of hate it, actually. Fucking astronauts and their stupid bimbo girlfriends.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know. My ghostwriting work.”
He had no idea what she ghostwrote. He’d been told, but it hadn’t been important to him. Apparently Gretchen wrote about astronauts . . . or bimbos. What she wrote had never been important to him, though. Only Gretchen was. “So what would you do if you could do anything?”
Gretchen glanced over at him. “Be right here? With you?”
He smiled. God, he loved her.
For the entire morning, Gretchen cooked and baked in the kitchen. It seemed therapeutic and distracting for her to pull ingredients out of the well-stocked fridge and begin to make delicious treats. And while she baked, she chatted. She told him about how when she was a little girl, she was the eldest. The twins were Audrey and Daphne, and their mother worked two jobs to make ends meet. As the eldest child, Gretchen had been the one in charge of the food, and during the summers she’d watched cooking shows to learn how to prepare meals for her sisters. She’d enjoyed working in the kitchen and it had taken off from there. Now she baked for the coffee shop and loved to cook for friends.
By the time Gretchen looked fully relaxed, there was a fresh-baked set of banana nut muffins on the counter, something she referred to as a gingerbread soufflé, tiny, perfectly shaped white chocolate scones, and pudding-filled lemon cupcakes decorated with hints of lemon zest, freshly grated by Hunter. She seemed utterly content.
She was beautiful and incredibly sexy, and he found that he could watch her for hours and never get bored.
When the last pan was out of the oven and cooling, she began to whip up frosting. She glanced over at him and then dipped her finger in the frosting, offering it to him. “Want to taste?”
His c**k jerked at the husky note in her voice and the soft look in her eyes. Ah, damn. Gretchen was thinking pleasant things, and it automatically made him hard to recognize that. Hunter leaned in and took her finger in his mouth, sucking on the fingertip.
A soft whimper of lust escaped her throat.
He licked her with languorous pleasure, his c**k hard as a rock in his pants. When he released her finger, her gaze was still riveted to his mouth.
It seemed they were thinking along the same wavelength. “Is it too early in the day to throw you down on the floor and f**k you?”
Her entire body seemed to tremble with that. “God, no. Never too early.”
“Then come here,” he growled.
She moved toward him slowly, all cooking forgotten. Her hands reached for him automatically, moving to smooth along his jaw and the scars there. He didn’t flinch away at her exploring touch. Gretchen’s gaze was appreciative and hot with desire, not disgusted and flinching with revulsion.
She saw him beneath the scars.
Hunter’s arm went around her waist, dragging her against him. Her eyes widened and she smiled, placing a hand on his already erect c**k through his slacks. “It doesn’t take much to get you going, does it?”
“Not when it comes to you,” he told her, wrapping his other hand in her hair and tilting her neck back. He leaned in and pressed a kiss there, running his teeth over her skin.
She shivered against him, her hand automatically clenching around his cock. “Oh, Hunter, that feels amazing.”
“I want to make you feel good,” he told her, licking at the delicate cords of her neck. “Tell me what you want.”
“Sex. Right here, right now.” Her hand pumped over his cock, rubbing through his clothing as if she could give him a handjob through the layers.