“I’m not exactly . . . great in the kitchen.”
“I’ll help,” she says. “Step-by-step. We’ll go shopping, get everything you need. I’ll tell him not to order from the chef tonight and to be home for eight.”
I hesitate.
Then, for some reason . . .
I nod. Even though the thought of sitting across from Ray Carmichael over dinner might be the most terrifying thing I’ve ever agreed to.
CHAPTER FOUR
RAY
My phone rings just as I pull up outside.Catherine.I already know what this is about, but I answer anyway.
“It’s eight-fifteen,” she says. “Are you home?”
“I’m pulling in now.”
“You’re late.”
I glance at the dashboard clock, unimpressed. “I’m fifteen minutes late.”
“I told you not to be late.”
I huff out a breath. “You’re lucky I showed up at all. Dinner with Wynter? I can’t think of anything worse.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“What am I supposed to talk to her about?” I mutter, killing the engine. “What do twenty-somethings even talk about?”
“She’s more mature than you think,” Catherine replies. “And ten years is not a big age gap.” I step out the car, already heading towards the private entrance. “You’ll find something in common,” she adds. “And Ray, be nice.”
I pause for half a second, jaw tightening. “I am nice,” I mutter.
She laughs.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, pushing the door open. “I’m here.” I end the call before she can say anything else.
For a moment, I just stand there. Then I straighten my jacket and head inside.
I step into the penthouse and stop.
The kitchen is a disaster.
Pots and pans cover every surface. Something bubbles aggressively on the hob, threatening to spill over. The island is dusted in flour, streaked with pastry, and what looks like . . . something I don’t even want to identify.
I stand in stunned silence taking everything in.
“Shit. Shit . . . shit, shit.” Wynter comes running in, skidding to a stop right in front of me, nearly crashing into my chest.
“Oh,” she breathes. “You’re home.” Her eyes flick around the kitchen, and she winces. “It looks worse than it is,” she says quickly. “I promise dinner won’t be a disaster.” I raise an unconvinced brow. She gestures vaguely behind me. “I’ve set the table.” Like that somehow fixes this. I glance back at the chaos. Then at her.
Flour dusts her hands. There’s a smudge on her cheek, and her hair’s half fallen out of its tie, strands sticking to her face. She looks ridiculous, yet I fight the urge to touch her, to brush that hair back from her rosy cheeks.
I drag a hand down my face and go through to the dining room. I shrug out of my jacket and take a seat at the dining table. We never eat in here. The room is more for show than anything else—too polished, too formal, too untouched. I’m rarely home for dinner anyway. Most nights, I eat downstairs in the casino. I pay a top chef enough money to make sure I never need to sit in this room and pretend I’m part of a normal household. Because since Anika’s accident, nothing’s normal.
Wynter comes in carrying two plates.
