So I told myself.
He still lounged on a stool on the opposite side of an enormous island in the middle of the kitchen, picking through a tray of golden pastries. He popped one into his mouth and moaned while he chewed. “Spying on the kitchen staff, were you?”
My stomach dropped. A flush crept up my neck. Fates, Ihadbeen spying. Just not onthem.
The chef watched him with an indulgent smile, her eyes kind yet curious when they turned my way.
I forced a shrug and stepped closer, the stove’s heat brushing my legs through the thin linen of my pants.
“Sit.” He gestured to a second stool beside him, wincing for some reason when he did it.
Though I knew it was childish, I couldn’t help it. I rounded the island, lifted the chair, and carried it to the opposite side, lowering it to the floor.
His grin widened, satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
The staff pretended not to watch, but I could feel their stolen glances as I perched on the edge of the stool.
I drummed up a glare for him. “Please,” I said. “Don’t let me interrupt your snack.”
The scrape of wood on stone made me flinch.
Trew eased off his stool and lifted it, his mouth twitching from the effort. He carried it around the island to my side and plunked it down uncomfortably close. I could swear he grimaced as he reached across the island, sliding the plate of sweets over in front of us.
He sat. Our thighs brushed. I tried to remember what we were doing and ignore his warmth seeping through my pants and into my skin.
The cook wiped her hands on her apron and smiled at us like we were children playing house.
“Isi.” Trew waved lazily between us. “This is Betina Farlain, the head chef of this glorious kitchen where they craft meals so wonderful, they’re spoken about throughout the kingdom. Isi…” His gaze slid over me, as sharp as a needle, heightening my irritation. “Somehow, I didn’t catch your last name…”
Every instinct shrieked that I should run. “It’s, um…Barlowe.” The fake last name Commander Thorne suggested I use.
“Barlowe.” He rolled the name around on his tongue. “Are you one of the Oakhaven Barlowes?”
“No,” I said much too quickly. “I’m not from that village. I’m from… Deepwood.”
He tilted his head, his smile fading. “Deepwood. I don’t remember any Barlowes there.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
He nudged his chin toward the plate. “I was complimenting Betina on her latest recipe. You should try one. Tell me what you think.” Not waiting for me to respond, he plucked one of the sweets from the tray and held it out to me. Tempting me. Urging me to take a bite.
If Betina wasn’t gazing at me so eagerly, I would’ve ignored him, but I was no more interested in hurting her feelings than he was. So I gave him a wan smile and leaned close, taking a nibble. Chewing.
There was something excruciatingly intimate about eating something from the hand of your possible enemy while he watched you with not only a smug, knowing look, but as if he couldn’t wait for you to taste more than the treat.
I swallowed the bite, trying to keep my posture composed, even regal. I failed. My toes curled inside my boots.
With that same unbearable slowness, he popped the remaining bit of the pastry into his mouth. He didn’t break eye contact, not even as he chewed.
A restless, hot feeling slid through me. My knee brushed his. My spine stiffened. I stared at the line of his jaw, the slight movement in his throat when he swallowed, and the way his gaze lazily drifted down my body before returning to my lips again. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he was enjoying making me squirm.
“It’s very tasty,” I said, my voice too breathy for discussing food.
He smiled, lazy and smug.
Betina nodded. “Thank you.” Turning toward the staff who’d given up cooking and watched us raptly, Betina clapped her hands. “Let’s make twelve batches to serve with breakfast tomorrow.” She bustled away from the island.
The kitchen exploded into action. Staff magically pulled out gleaming bowls and long-handled wooden spoons. Their movements were a kind of ballet, fast and seamless, as if the recipe alreadylived in their bones. One magic-wielder twirled her fingers and a spice rack across the room rose and drifted through the air, settling gently on the wooden counter beside the bowl. Another whisked butter and sugar together without ever touching it, her fingers dancing midair like a conductor.
