Page 58 of Billionaire's Coastal Haven

Landon doesn’t do small talk. I’m too attracted to him to not stick my foot in my mouth. Friendship might be navigable terrain for us, but what if we slip into something more? Is it dumb of me to wonderwhat if?

What if we become friends, but I want more than he’s willing to give?

What if we become friends, but when he leaves, there’s a hole in my heart because he’s become dear to me?

What if we become friends, but he wants more and I can’t give him what he needs?

“Where would I find a pot to boil the pasta and another to make the cream sauce?” he asks.

I brace my hands on the back of my dining chair. “You weren’t lying about being a chef?”

“I will never lie to you. They say the fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I disagree. I think that cliche fits women better. In my experience, women find nothing sexier than a man who can serve them a delicious meal.” He winks.

There goes all the mental energy I wasted wonderingwhat ifwe become friends. He’s blowing right by that interstate exit and headed toward More-Than-I-Can-Give-ville. “And do you want me to think you’re sexy?”

“You already do. This is me reminding you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Landon, you have to stop.”

He slides his hands onto my shoulders and rubs gentle circles across my collarbones. “And you need to relax. There’s no one here but me. You can let your guard down. I don’t expect anything from you except your company. You don’t even need to speak to me if you don’t want to.”

Why is he here, then? What’s the end goal? Why does he care? “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t need to.” His lips brush my forehead. “Sometimes you just need to accept things the way they are. And tonight, I’m taking care of you by making you dinner.”

“You’re so used to being bossy. What if I don’t want to have dinner with you?”

“I am a billionaire. I inherited one of the largest corporations in the world. If I’m not bossy, nothing gets done the way that it should be. Now, where are those pots?”

I retrieve the tools he needs. “What do you want me to do?”

“Enjoy your wine.”

“Feels weird to just sit here and watch you.”

He pulls the chair out from the table and gestures for me to sit. “When was the last time anyone took care of you?”

I shrug. “That’s not how things work. Besides, I want to help. If you’re such a great chef, then teach me.”

His eyes brighten from iceberg-green to Mediterranean Sea. “Boil the water for the pasta while I prep the chanterelle mushrooms?”

We work in companionable silence. He is a master with the chef’s knife, dicing mushrooms, garlic, and fresh thyme, moving fluidly around the kitchen as if he’s been here before. Completely comfortable in his skin… and in my space.

When I add water to the pot, he sprinkles in two gigantic fingerfuls of salt. “Salty as the sea for the noodles to cook perfectly.”

I hate to admit his command of the kitchen is sexy. He could summon an army of chefs with the snap of his fingers but has chosen to cook for me himself. That’s more intoxicating than wine.

His muscles bunch beneath his tight shirt when he retrieves a spatula from the crock on my counter. They flex as he sautés the vegetables, hinting at the defined shape hidden beneath the fabric. I doubt there is an ounce of fat anywhere on his body.

Unlike me, who is soft and curvy on my best days.

I should have changed into a cuter outfit so I don’t feel so frumpy next to him.

Would it be weird if I snuck into my bedroom and changed? Or would that be too obvious?

He called me beautiful in my oversized T-shirt.

I can choose to believe him.