“That’s the idea.” He held the door open, and she came up the steps, close enough that he caught her scent — arousal she wasn’t bothering to hide wrapped around the primal scent of wolf. He kept his face neutral and followed her in.
She stopped just past the threshold to look around, and he watched her take the place in with the same focused attention she’d given the rail that morning.
“You built this,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“The house was already here, but I modified it substantially, and I built the garage.”
He watched her clock the commercial freezer, the gas range with an inset gas grill beside it, the smart oven, the stainless countertops. Her gaze paused on the knife displays.
She crossed to the nearest one and looked at the knives without touching them.
“Shun,” she said. “Bob Kramer.” A pause. “And youreallylike Wüsthof.”
She looked up from the magnetic countertop displays to the strip beside the stove. “And a MAC for your common, everyday use. Excellent choice.”
She’d recognized all four, and he was duly impressed.
She looked at him over her sexy-as-fuck shoulder and noted, “You cook seriously.”
“I take most things seriously.”
It came off like a corny double entendre, but he scented a little more arousal from her, which made his dick answer with more throbbing.
She turned to him and held the wine up. “I brought a Barolo. I figured you weren’t a Chardonnay kinda guy.”
He was just going to have to take her word on that, since he didn’t have a clue what a Barolo was, so he handed her the opener and moved to the counter.
“Steaks are ready for the fire. I’ll just walk them outside. Baked potatoes are resting.” He picked the plate up. “Charcoal grill is outside. Be right back.”
When he returned, she was pouring the wine into two glasses.
“You have a perfectly good gas grill in here, but you opted for the pain in the ass of charcoal, and that takes patience most people don’t have these days. You don’t mind going the extra mile to go from good to excellent. I figured that out about you this morning, but it’s nice to see it again. What’s the cut?”
“Ribeye. Dry-aged twenty-one days.” He accepted his glass of wine and leaned against the counter across from her. “I pulled them this afternoon, after a woman with curves I didn’t even know about yet agreed to come to dinner.”
She laughed, and he scented her wolf more, as if it perked up at his words.
They talked about the Wellington prep she’d already done, about the duxelles and whether truffle paste was a shortcut worth taking or a cop-out. He disagreed with her about the truffle paste and said so, and she narrowed her eyes at him and then argued her position with the fastidiousness of someone who knew how to back an educated stance.
He enjoyed it more than he’d enjoyed a debate in… possibly years.
They ended the conversation on the deck, so he could watch the steaks.
He noticed her register the firepit — wood and kindling already set, ready to light. She looked at it and then at him, and he told her, “I have everything necessary for s’mores, but I gotta admit, that dress is making me rethink the order of events.”
She gave him a mock toast and took a sip of her wine, and he figured that was her way of letting him know he was on the right track.
He’d set the table with sour cream, butter, salt, and pepper, along with steak knives and forks, so it was just a matter of plating the steaks, adding the potatoes, and then sitting down to the table.
The steaks were exactly right, and he watched her take the first bite, quickly followed by expressions of approval and pleasure.
“Okay,” she said. “These are legitimately exceptional.”
“I know where they come from.”
“You know how to cook them, too.” She cut another piece. “The fat rendering is perfect.”
“Patience,” he said. “Like you said.”
