Matt was on the phone when I sauntered back into the living room—business mode activated as he discussed percentages and profit margins. The sight of him like that—powerful, in control—sent an unfamiliar shiver down my spine.
Without interrupting his call, he glanced up at me; that amusement hadn’t left his eyes.
I flopped onto the sofa with all the grace of an overcooked noodle and snatched up my laptop. Might as well get some work done before dinner—though focusing with him in the room was akin to read fine print during an earthquake.
I tapped away at my laptop, working to ignore the sensual heat radiating off Matt as he talked on the phone in his deep, commanding voice. Seriously, it was like trying to concentrate while someone played Beethoven’s Fifth on a grand piano right next to you—distracting and impossible to tune out.
I was knee-deep in lines of code, my fingers dancing across the keyboard like a pianist on a caffeine binge, when the door creaked open. I didn’t look up; it was probably just Bruno coming in to check if I’d morphed into a lounge lizard or something. But instead of the expected silence that accompanied Bruno’s check-ins, a symphony of culinary clatter followed.
My eyes darted up, catching sight of a chef—white hat and all—wheeling in a battalion of pots and pans. He was like some sort of kitchen ninja, moving with silent efficiency as he commandeered Matt’s state-of-the-art cooking space.
I blinked at the invasion, half expecting Gordon Ramsay to pop out from behind the fridge yelling about raw chicken or something. But no, it was just this maestro of gastronomy, firing up burners and sending the place into an aromatic frenzy.
I expected Matt to order room service, not a Michelin-starred cooking performance.
Curiosity nibbled at me like a starved hamster. I minimized my coding window and craned my neck to spy on Chef Boyardee’s doppelganger. What was he whipping up? A six-course meal? The smell alone was enough to make my stomach do backflips and beg for mercy—or an appetizer.
Over an hour passed, with Matt still conducting business on the phone like some sort of Wall Street maestro. Was he directing global markets or just buying a small country? Who knew?
Finally, mercifully, he ended the call. “Sorry about that,” he said with the ease of someone who hadn’t just been glued to his phone for longer than some people’s relationships last.
He made his way to the wine section—yes, he had a whole section devoted to fermented grape juice—and returned with a bottle that looked expensive enough to solve world hunger if auctioned off. He poured two glasses with the practiced ease of someone who probably had a sommelier on speed dial.
“Thought you could use this,” Matt said, handing me a glass brimming with liquid luxury.
“Understatement of the year,” I replied, snatching it eagerly from his hand. A sip revealed it was liquid gold—a fine vintage that tasted like how silk felt.
Then Matt did something that threw me for a loop. He plopped down beside me on the couch and pulled me into his arms as if we were some old married couple settling in for Netflix and actual chill. He flicked on the TV with one hand while his other rested comfortably around my waist.
I took a sip from my glass and tried not to let on how much his casual touch scrambled my brain—and not in the good omelet way either.
There I was, a human pretzel, tangled in Matt’s arms with my laptop perched precariously on my knees. My fingers tap-danced across the keys, coding like a man possessed. But Matt? Oh, he had other ideas. Every few minutes, his lips would descend on my neck, my shoulder, the top of my head—planting little kisses that threatened to compile errors in my focus.
“Could you not?” I said with a laugh that betrayed my annoyance. “There’s only so much multitasking a guy can do.”
But he just hummed in response, a sound that vibrated through me like bass at a club.
And then there was the food. Oh, the food.
The chef rolled up to the coffee table instead of the dining table—thank heavens for small mercies—and began arranging an array of dishes that looked like they’d been plucked straight from a gourmet magazine. Each plate was a masterpiece—tiny, perfect sculptures of culinary artistry.
My eyes widened at the spread. There were miniature beef Wellingtons wrapped in golden pastries, delicate crab cakes sitting atop tiny dollops of aioli, seared scallops perched on beds of pea puree. And let’s not forget the quail eggs nestled in nests of spun sugar—because why have regular eggs when you can eat something that once housed a bird no bigger than your fist?
The chef turned to Matt. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
Matt waved him off with a casual flick of his hand, as if dismissing an orchestra after a flawless symphony. The chef vanished like a culinary ninja into the night.
I glanced over at Matt with eyes practically sparkling with hunger. “Can we eat now?”
He chuckled—a sound as rich and smooth as the chocolate ganache I spotted on one of the dessert plates—and nodded toward the feast before us. “Dig in.”
And dig in I did.
Each bite was an explosion of flavor that made me want to weep tears of joy—or maybe that was just the truffle oil talking. There was lobster bisque served in espresso cups, its creamy richness perfect for sipping. Tiny lamb lollipops with mint pesto made me question every life choice that had led me to eating anything else before this moment.
With every morsel that melted on my tongue, I found new appreciation for being wrapped up in this lavish world of Matt Caine’s making—even if it did come with an overly affectionatebillionaire who didn’t know when to quit with the kisses. Not that I was complaining… much.
Matt’s hand, steady as a surgeon’s, closed around something sinfully creamy—a spoonful of panna cotta that wobbled like a belly dancer’s hips. “Open wide,” he said, and I could almost hear the unspokensay ahhhanging in the air.
