He reaches across me to grab a second board, his body brushing mine—solid and warm and too close not to want. My legs tighten instinctively, but I force myself to focus. If he can keep it together, so can I. Probably.
“So what’s your secret?” I ask, slicing the first fruit as thin as I can manage to find juicy, blue flesh under the white rind. “Did you take culinary classes in secret while I thought you were doing mission briefings?”
“No,” he chuckles. “But I cooked with my mother a lot before she and my father retired to Kanin. When I came back to help out with the meadery, I picked it right back up again—especially growing all my own food.”
“It’s sexy.”
He snorts. “You think everything I do is sexy.”
“That’s because it is.”
Garrik shakes his head, but his antennae are still tinged pink. “You’re distracting.”
“Says the guy rolling dough like it owes him money.”
He coughs, clearly remembering the way I moaned earlier.
I keep chopping, pleased with myself.
The kitchen feels warmer now—not just from the oven but from us. From the tension sparking between every movement, every accidental brush of knees or fingers. He glances at me again when I lick juice from my thumb. I glance at him when he lifts the flatbread to check the crispness, the motion making his forearms flex.
This? This is foreplay.
And I’m reveling in it.
“Alright,” Garrik murmurs after a moment, sliding the flatbread onto a wood-plated board. “Glaze is ready. Wine’s chilled. You’ve officially survived your prep trial.”
“Do I get a reward?” I ask, swinging my legs, letting the dress flutter.
He leans close, lips near my ear. “Later.”
I shiver. “You promise?”
“I’ve been promising all day.”
And with that, he slides the finished bread onto two plates, adds the greens and roots with those steady, precise hands, and passes me a full glass of wine.
“For the lady,” he says, mock-formal.
I raise my glass. “To future meals and unfinished promises.”
He clinks his glass with mine, flashing me a crooked grin. “To dessert.”
We take our plates to the small table near the window, light spilling in from the garden. Garrik lights a little votive candle—like this is a real date.
And the food? Well…it’sgood.Like really, really good. The flatbread is warm and crisp, flecked with herbs and drizzled with a glaze that tastes like lemon and roses. The greens are earthy and bright with spice. The moonberry wine is rich and heady, warming me up in the best way.
But it’s not really about the food, is it?
It’s the way he watches me. The way he wipes a smear of glaze off my lip with his thumb.
The way he barely touches his own plate until I’ve had seconds and praised him for being “ridiculously hotanda domestic god.”
“Davrin’s never going to let me live this down,” Garrik mutters after I make an obscene noise about the roasted roots.
“Oh, I’m tellingeveryone,” I say cheerfully. “Your family’s going to know exactly how spoiled I am.”
“They already do.”
