“Guilty.” I watch the man unfold his long, strong body and try not to stare.
Fail and have to swing my gaze elsewhere.
It lands on the open gas grill at the back of the kitchen, and I drift towards it, peering at the cast iron plates and the extractors that sit above it.
“I installed some under-counter fridge drawers here so that you don’t have to trek to the walk-in for every new order.”
“Hmm?”
It’s my turn to jump. The man is right behind me, his deep voice a weapon of mass distraction that rattles my bones. “Drawers?”
“Here.” He squats and opens a couple of drawers the perfect size for trays of produce ready for grilling. “The refrigerators had to go over there because of the way the old wiring runs. Figured this would save you some time.”
I compute his words. Load them into a brain that’s already crowded with the possibilities his ingenuity have given me. The grill is pretty small, but it’s a beast. He mentioned steak, but I’m loyal to my burgers, man. I left a piece of my soul in that van.
“The fryers are over here—two of ’em. One for meat products, one for fries. Or whatever. You’re the chef. There’s prep space over there, a salad bar, and the smallest dessert station in the world—” The man swivels his tall frame with an elegance he shouldn’t have. “—over there.”
I take it all in, calculating counter space alongside ogling his broad shoulders and narrow hips. The warm beard that covers his jaw. The dust and oil stains on his scarred hands. He’s so natural, and it’s different to Tanner’s brooding aesthetic and Jax’s beach vibe. This dude…he’s like the earth, man. I don’t know what it is. Just that he’s so compelling I can’t look away. Is it weird that my brain seems to think he’s as sexy as an ancient oak tree?
Definitely fucking weird. And too many trunk jokes invade my mind. I call him Tree Man in my head and leave it at that. It’s safer.
“There’s a smoker too. Present from Jax.”
“What?”
Once again, he startles me just by existing. Self-conscious, I loosen my hair from the messy knot at the base of my neck. Shake it out. Retie it into a new clusterfuck. It takes me a minute to register that my confused grunt has gone unanswered, and that Tree Man is staring at me, unblinking and hotter than sin.
He licks his lips, and the kitchen closes in on me, narrowing the universe to just me and my unruly eyeballs as they track that sexy-as-fuckswipe of his tongue.
Wow. It’s something else and I have nothing to counter it with, so I stare and stare and stare untilTree Man breaks the moment.
He inclines his head to the left. I follow his gaze to the counter nearest the dessert station. A box awaits me. Closer inspection reveals a mini smoker inside and I grin, remembering a long-ago conversation that stretched until dawn. “Jax wants me to smoke the cheese.”
“What, like, cheddar?” Tree Man’s frown is adorable.
I laugh. “That’s probably what he means these days, but years ago, crystal cheese wasthestrain of weed in sunny Fistral Bay. We smoked so much of it we fell asleep on the beach. Didn’t notice till the tide came in and swept our bikes away.”
“Pothead, huh?”
“Nah. Retired. They were good days, though.”
Tree Man turns his frown upside down. He smiles, wistful and sweet, and it makes me want to trace his full lips with my finger. But I restrain myself because I havesomeboundaries. “Did you build this kitchen?”
“I installed it. Tanner gave me the empty space and told me to do my worst. Hopefully it’s a little better than that.”
My gaze sinks into him. I pry it free before his wide eyes hook me in, and I sweep the kitchen again. It’s a small space for the size of the bar, but the design is ingenious enough that it shouldn’t matter. I tick the equipment off in my head. Grill. Fryers. Ovens. Gas burners.
A fucking smoker.
Damn, this bloke has given me everything I’ll ever need.
I drift back to the grill. Crouch and open the magic drawers, brain buzzing with ideas too fast for me to catch them.
Write shit down.
It’s cute that I even contemplate being that organized. But it doesn’t matter yet. I’ve just gotta hope a flash of brilliance doesn’t get lost in the chaos. The greatest plans I’ve ever made are the ones I don’t remember.
As the thought completes, a battered notebook drops into the drawer in front of me. It’s dog-eared and crumpled and swiftly followed by a thick builder’s pencil. The kind my uncle used to keep behind his ear. It’s aged and weathered too, sharpened at both ends with the crude blade of a knife.
