Damn it.
Watching Grayson Walker cook is just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean, he owns that kitchen. My kitchen. He struts around the place as though he was born to be there. Grabbing ingredients from the walk-in like it’s his own personal supermarket, chopping vegetables like an infomercial, and ordering me around like a damn kitchen maid from Downton Abbey.
And even though I act completely annoyed and inconvenienced every time he tells me to grab a spice from the rack, or stir the pot to keep the sauté from burning, secretly I’m fucking loving it.
His command of this room—and me—is so totally hot.
I never thought I’d be one of those girls who enjoyed getting bossed around by a man. But then again, maybe I’ve just never been bossed around by the right man. The way Grayson does it—always with a smirk, sometimes even a wink—it drives me insane.
He’s so confident in here. So relaxed. He tosses ingredients into that pot without even measuring or weighing them. He floats fresh herbs under his nose and closes his long thick lashes while he inhales. When he stirs, his arm muscles flex under the sleeve of his polo shirt.
It’s like kitchen porn.
I don’t know what he’s like at his investment bank on a normal day, but this is clearly his element. And seeing him in it is making me want to do things to him. Bad things. Things that would definitely violate every promise I’ve made to myself in the past forty-eight hours.
I spend half the time trying to hide how much I’m enjoying playing kitchen wench, and the other half reprimanding myself for having such dirty thoughts about the chef.
Not to mention the time and effort I spend holding myself back from just outright tackling him. Forcing him up against the prep table, shoving my tongue in his mouth, and letting him sauté me to a crisp.
After the stock is done, Grayson grabs the bowl full of tomatoes that I just finished peeling and brings them over to the pot. I lean against the wall, trying to look disinterested, as I watch him scoop one into his large, muscular hand. He holds it over the pot and mercilessly crushes it between his bare fingers.
Holy fuck. Is he kidding me with that?
The juicy pulp oozes from his hand, dripping over his knuckles and into the pot below.
Is this normal?
Should I be this turned on by crushed tomatoes?
“Um,” I begin, trying to hide the quiver in my voice and ignore the tingling between my thighs. “You know we have utensils to do that?”
Grayson flicks me a wicked glance out of the corner of his eye. “This is much more satisfying.” He beckons me over with a nod. “Come here, try it.”
“I...” I stammer. A hundred reasons why that is a terrible idea zip around my head like flies. “That’s okay.”
But Grayson rolls his eyes. “Just come here. You’ll like it. It feels good.”
I know I’ll like it, I want to scream. That’s why I shouldn’t do it.
But I find myself moving toward him anyway. Without any permission from my brain. Without any consideration for my heart. Not to mention the humming space between my legs.
He steps back, making room for me in front of the stove. Or more accurately, between him and the stove.
I gulp in a courageous breath and squeeze into the narrow gap. Grayson seems unconcerned with our proximity.
Both of his arms slide around me, trapping me inside them. He places a luscious peeled tomato into my palm and closes my fingers tightly around it, squeezing my hand with his.
I nearly let out an involuntary gasp as pulpy fruit bursts against my skin, the juices flowing between my knuckles, dripping down my wrists. His hand grips mine tighter, pinching out every last drop. Then he pries my fist open, letting the mangled, shriveled tomato fall into the pot below.
Oh God. This was a mistake.
This shiver prickling every inch of my skin is a mistake. This moisture between my legs and heat shooting up my arm and sweet breath on my neck are huge fucking mistakes.
Grayson made his choice.
And that choice was Alex.
Not me.
He made that perfectly clear on the beach last night when he waxed all remorseful about her magic spell. The memory makes me tense with anger.
What am I doing here with him?
Letting him envelop me like this. Letting his lips linger close to my neck. His hands wrap around mine.
Don’t be an idiot, Lia!
I feel the sudden urge to bolt. To run as far away from this place as I can.
My heart can’t take another rejection from Grayson Walker. It’s been through enough in the past eight years. It needs a fucking break.
Before I can change my mind, I swiftly duck under his arm and sprint across the kitchen, snatching a dish towel and wiping the juice from my hand.
“You okay?” Grayson asks, grabbing another tomato.
Is this his idea of a sick joke? He confesses his undying love for my sister, right after his fingers were inside me and his tongue was stroking me, and then he has the nerve to show up here unannounced, acting like we’re BFFs, claiming he just wants to help me with my sauce?
If Danika were here right now she’d tell me to get the hell out of there as fast as I can, because clearly this man is evil. Diabolical. He plays with people’s emotions. He gets a kick out of watching me swoon and flail and flounder like a lovesick teenager.
“I’m just great,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
Grayson squeezes the tomato, seemingly oblivious to my rage. But this one doesn’t explode into the pot below. It explodes onto his pale yellow polo shirt. He jumps back, but it’s too late. A giant splotch of red blossoms out from his stomach.
“Damn,” he swears and before I can offer to get him anything for it—soda water, a rag, an apron—the shirt comes flying over his head and I’m staring at his muscular bare chest and beautifully defined shoulders.
He tosses the shirt onto the floor and grabs another tomato.
Meanwhile I stand open-mouthed and speechless, trying to figure out what to do about the now half-naked man in my kitchen.
I clear my throat, attempting to remain professional about this. “Well, see, that’s just not okay.”
He glances down. “What? This?”
I nod, feeling my mouth open and close like a goddamn fish. “First of all, it’s completely against health code and second of all—”
“It’s unfair,” he finishes my sentence, even though that’s not even remotely close to what I was about to say.
I scrunch my face in confusion. “Unfair?”
He nods, crushing the next tomato in his fists. “Yes.”
I’m about to ask him what exactly he means by that when suddenly something comes flying through the air, landing smack in the middle of my chest. Dumbfounded and aghast, I glance down to see a massive red stain on the front of my white T-shirt.
“What the fuck?” I ask, gesturing wildly toward it. “Did you just throw a tomato at me?”
“There,” he says, nodding appreciatively, as though he’s proud of his handy work, “now we’re even.”
“Like hell we are,” I growl. I lunge forward, grab a squishy, bright red tomato from the bowl, stand on my tiptoes and mash it into Grayson’s silky, honey-brown hair, pressing down hard and twisting my hand so the pulp is evenly distributed over his head.
Grayson’s mouth falls open. “Are you kidding?”
I stand back, crossing my arms over my chest in satisfaction. “Looks pretty good.”
A mischievous smile breaks onto his face and I know instantly that I’m in trouble. “You are so dead,” he whispers.
As soon as I see his hand inch toward the tomato bowl I let out a shriek and start to run, looping around the prep station, bursting into the walk-in refrigerator, and barricading myself inside. With the bottom of my foot firmly planted against the door to keep him from getting in, I scan the shelves, searching for something to arm myself with.
My eyes fall on an aerosol can of whipped cream that we use to top the ice cream sundaes. I grab it, sidestep from the door, and push my back against the adjacent wall, metal canister poised like a gun.
The door flies open and, while Grayson is looking forward, I spring into action from the side, foaming his face with whipped cream, then sprinting out of the walk-in before he has a chance to retaliate.
Giggling, I scamper out of the kitchen and into the dining room, ducking behind the bar. I grab the soda gun from its holster and poise my finger on the button for soda water.
I can hear Grayson creeping through the restaurant, searching for me. I stay crouched down, out of sight.
“Lia,” he calls in a sad excuse for a menacing voice. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
I peer around the edge of the bar and see that he’s armed himself with a metal mixing bowl full of the chocolate drizzle I was going to use on Alex’s cannoli the night she arrived. He must have found it in the back of the walk-in. He’s got his hand buried in the sauce, ready to fling it at me.
He turns to look my way, and I hastily pull myself back in, breathing heavily and grinning from ear to ear. My heart is pounding from the thrill of the chase.
I listen carefully for his footsteps, trying to pinpoint his location, but the dining room has fallen eerily silent.
I decide to sneak another peek around the base of the bar, easing forward onto my knees, keeping the soda gun tightly gripped in my hand.
But just as I’m inching around the corner, I feel something cold and sticky drip into my hair and down my back. I scream and jump up, finding Grayson leaning over the bar top, his metal bowl tipped toward me. The chocolate trickles down my face and I let out a battle cry as I open fire with the soda gun. The stream of fizzy liquid hits him squarely in the nose. He grunts and rears back, stumbling out of range of my weapon.
I release the button but hold it cocked and loaded in front of me.
“Don’t come any closer,” I warn him. “Put the chocolate down.”
He smirks at me but does as he’s told, lowering the bowl to the ground and standing with his hands raised over his head. “I’d like to negotiate the terms of my surrender,” he states.
I consider, keeping the gun trained on his face. “What are your requests?”
He locks into my eyes, heat blazing from his irises as he takes a meaningful step toward me.
I wag the soda gun at him. “Hey! Don’t move.”
But he doesn’t listen. He keeps walking, his gaze fierce as his eyes narrow on me. Like a missile zeroing in on a target. His footsteps are bold, purposeful, unwavering. My thumb trembles against the button. My heart thunders in my chest.
This is war.
This is my ultimate battle.
To fight him. To break free from this hold he has over me. To crawl out from under him.
And I’m losing.
I’m losing.
I’ve lost.