I continued to examine the space closely, picking up a book or two, while my stomach growled loud enough to startle me. It became harder to ignore the fact that I had eaten little all day. I could attempt another vending machine raid, but dammit, I owned this place.
My hangry-ness forced me out into the hall, traversing to the kitchen when delicious scents drifted through the air.
Pumpkin? Apple? Definitely a buttery crust. Whatever it was, I followed it with the nose of a bloodhound.
Like a spy, I carefully peeked at Lilah through the kitchen window in the swinging door, and then I heard humming. Distinctly familiar humming. She was cooking to the tune of “All I Want For Christmas is You.”
If I hadn’t been starving, I might’ve questioned reality. Was the magic of the holiday finding her again?
I dared to knock on the metal doorframe, opening it only an inch. I’d already been nearly murdered by a bat today—I wasn’t taking unnecessary risks of another spatula flying toward my face.
“Lilah, it’s me, respectfully requesting something to eat,” I called. “Very respectfully.”
The humming cut off instantly. After a long, defeated sigh, she reached for a stool, carried it across the floor, and thunked it next to the prep counter.
“Come on in. Sit here. And don’t touch anything,” she ordered and patted the seat.
“Yes, Chef.” I saluted and slid onto the stool, acting the saint, like the world’s hungriest, least-threatening intruder.
She moved through the kitchen with fierce determination and focused precision, pulling ingredients—thick bread, four different kinds of cheeses, butter, herbs, tomatoes, peppers, salt. She chopped and mixed and whipped something together while I watched, mesmerized by her into a trance.
I had never experienced anything like this—foreplay at its finest. She tasted a spoonful of her soup, wrapping her plump lips around a spoon and frowned, adjusting spices by instinct. My mouth watered for a taste, not only of the food, but if ever given a chance—of her.
She caught me staring and cocked a brow.
“Pardon me. I’m starving.” I gave a sheepish grin. “It’s a medical condition at this point.”
Her shoulders loosened half an inch.
“Can I help chop something?” I asked, growing restless on the stool.
“No.”
“Stir something?”
“No.”
“Sit here and master my smoldering stare at you?”
Her lips twerked. I’d take it.
My smile smoldered more. “Only playing to my strengths.”
“Try standing in the hallway and peeking through the window. You seem practiced at that.”
“Nope. You finally let me in. I’ll stay right here.”
“Be a good boy and behave yourself then,” she warned me with a pointed finger. As her employer, was it wrong of me to admit I liked her bossing me around? My cock twitched, getting a rise over it.
I practically sat on my hands and bit my bottom lip. If only she knew how tempting it was to reach for her and bring her into my arms, to lean down and taste her lips. Was it being alone with her in the storm or my hangry lightheadedness causing my libido to multiply?
A few minutes later of her every move fueling my fantasies, she slid a plate in front of me containing a grilled four-cheese panini with béchamel dipping sauce and a bowl of roasted tomato-pepper soup that smelled heavenly. Suddenly, this didn’t seem like hell anymore.
I grinned, reaching for my spoon. “So I paid millions for this lodge, and on Christmas Eve I get the soup-and-sandwich special?”
She snatched the tray away so fast I nearly fell off the stool.
“Whoa—no—hey, Chef, come on—I was only kidding.Kidding!” I backtracked quickly, regretting that I had stuck my foot in my mouth for a joke.
