“He’s a natural-born athlete, but he doesn’t have the mental strength—not at his age and not at the level he’s able to play. That’s where chess comes in. A game that’ll toughen up his brain a little.”
Her brows rose. “Prepping him for the NFL?”
The SUV slowed in front of my building, and I looked at her and replied, “I’m prepping him for life. Which is hard as fuck. I don’t care what he wants to do or play, I just want my son to be happy.”
She smiled. “I adore you.”
“Ah. So the asshole type softens ...”
“I did call you that, didn’t I?” She laughed and pinched her fingers together. “He softens slightly.”
When we came to a stop, I opened my door, getting out first, and I helped Emily to the ground. Before I shut the door, I thanked Denis, and I led her inside my building and into the private elevator.
She tried to lower the bottom of her T-shirt, lessening the amount of her stomach that peeked out. “I feel very underdressed.”
My stare took a dive down her body. “Why? You look amazing.”
“But you’re not nearly as casual as me.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Nothing special, just jeans and a button-down.”
“And ridiculously hot.”
I laughed. “Well, I can’t help that.” I held her ass, spanking the bottom a few times. “Stop worrying. One of my favorite outfits on you is scrubs. This is tied with that. I don’t need you to get dressed upfor me, Emily. I’m all about the athletic look, and you’ve got quite a handle on that.”
“You have this hidden talent where almost everything that comes out of your mouth is so unbelievably sexy.” She unwrapped her arms and looped them around my waist. “I want to eat the words you just said.”
“Mmm.” I leaned down and kissed her, and when the door opened and I immediately smelled dinner, I moaned again.
So did Emily. She closed her eyes and groaned, “Oh my God, what is that?”
“It’s your surprise.” I led her through the foyer and past the living room, stopping at the base of the kitchen, which was occupied by a chef and two helpers.
The chef was drying his hands with a towel hanging from his shoulder. “Gavin, it’s good to see you, my man.”
“And you, Walker.” As he came over to me, I shook his hand. “Walker Weston, meet Emily Wren. Emily, Walker is the chef and founder of multiple restaurant brands. Horned is one he recently opened nearby in Portsmouth, Toro—a restaurant I’m begging him to open in Boston—and Charred, the world-renowned steak house that we have here in the Back Bay.”
“I know it well. Charred is one of my favorites.” She clasped hands with him. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Walker.”
“Good to meet you,” Walker replied.
“How long has it been since you’ve been to Boston? When your book tour brought you through?”
He let out a long, winded exhale and nodded. “I believe so. But if I knew you had a kitchen like this”—his green gaze left mine to glance at his helpers—“I would have come more often.”
Walker was the same age as me, but the light in the kitchen was picking up some of his gray hairs. With the speed his company was moving and building, I knew the motherfucker had to be stressed. But it had taken only a phone call and he’d agreed to come in for the night.
I chuckled. “You have an open invite.”
“You’re not based in Boston?” Emily asked him.
“LA.” He rolled up a sleeve of his chef’s whites.
“No one cooks like Walker,” I told her. “My family has been a fan since the very beginning of his career, stumbling upon his father’s restaurant during a trip to LA. That was many years ago, before the Weston brand exploded. You know, his cookbook is the only cookbook my mom keeps permanently on her kitchen counter.”
“You came all the way here for Gavin?” Emily’s voice was soft.
“And you.” My hand briefly went to her cheek. “I wanted you to experience the best.” I left her face to clasp my friend’s arm. “And this here is the absolute best.”
