No. Yes.
“Sure. If you want.”
Lord help me.
Please do not let her bend over to retrieve ANYTHING.
CHAPTER 11
I pull the duck from the oven, and the rich, savory aroma makes my mouth water immediately.
“This smells incredible.”
Spence is plating the salad with surprising finesse, his large hands moving with precision as he arranges arugula and pomegranate seeds.
“You've done this before,” I observe.
“Survival training includes not starving.” He glances up with a half-smile. “Also had a buddy who was a chef before he joined the Teams. Picked up a few things.”
“A man of many talents.”
His eyes darken slightly. “You have no idea.”
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning that makes heat pool low in my belly.
I busy myself with the root vegetables, trying to ignore the way my hands shake slightly as I transfer them to a serving platter.
We work in synchronized silence, moving around each other in the kitchen. Every time he passes behind me, I'm hyperaware of the space between us—inches that feel like miles and nothing at all.
“Wine?” he asks, already moving toward an impressive rack built into the stone wall.
“Please.”
He selects a bottle, studying the label with concentration that seems excessive for the task. Stalling, maybe. Or just as affected by this tension as I am.
The cork releases with a soft pop, and he pours two generous glasses of red wine.
“To unexpected Christmas plans,” he says, raising his glass.
I clink mine against his. “To making the best of them.”
Our eyes meet over the rims as we drink, and I swear the temperature in the room rises ten degrees.
The wine is smooth, warming me from the inside out. Or maybe that's just the effect of being alone with Spencer McCallister in this impossibly romantic setting.
We carry everything to the dining table—a massive piece of reclaimed wood that could seat twenty but feels intimate with just the two of us at one end.
Spence pulls out my chair, and I try not to read into the gesture. He's just being polite. A gentleman.
A gentleman who told me he wanted to fuck me less than thirty minutes ago.
I nearly choke on my next sip of wine.
“You okay?” His hand is on my shoulder immediately, warm and solid.
“Fine,” I manage. “Wrong pipe.”
He doesn't move his hand right away, and I can feel the heat of his palm through my sweater. When he finally pulls back, I almost whimper at the loss.
