“The front desk said you hadn’t called down to order lunch yet, so I thought I’d bring you some,” he tells me, and my stomach loudly rumbles its approval.
“I was just thinking I was hungry. Are you doing that mindspeak thing?” I wonder.
With a soft chuckle, Ruger tries to hand me the bags, smart enough not to admit whether he’s been rooting around inside my head. Normally, I’d happily take his lunch offering, say thank you, and then shut the door and devour everything in the privacy of my suite. But I haven’t been able to get Gannon’s accusations out of my head all morning.
Instead of taking the food from Ruger, I debate inviting him inside. Part of me is nervous about doing that because it’s my private space and I’m still a little jumpy after everything that’s happened.
Ruger gives me a small grin. “Hey, you don’t have to—”
“One sec,” I cut him off as I lean sideways and snag my key card from the entry table. Then I step out into the hall.
“Whatchya got?” I ask as I take a seat on the ground.
Surprise shimmers in his eyes, but he blinks and it’s gone. He sets the bags down and sits across from me, his back to the wall and his long legs stretched out in front of him. With practiced hands, he starts pulling out to-go containers. All kinds of delicious scents overwhelm me, and my mouth instantly starts watering.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I brought a little of everything that’s popular.”
My grabby hands are already activated, and I eagerly pluck a container from him and flip the top open.
“Oh my god, garlic bread,” I moan as I stare salaciously at half a loaf of what looks like freshly baked doughy bread smothered in herbs and garlicky butter. “Get in my belly,” I order and then practically shove a whole piece into my mouth.
“Fuck me, that’s better than sex.” I groan internally.
Ruger chuckles but shakes his head, making it obvious that I failed at shielding that thought, but I’m not even sorry.
“Not the right kind of sex,” he counters, but then he presses his lips together and looks down, like he’s worried he overstepped.
Clearing his throat, he starts setting out different containers all around me, each one overflowing with pure deliciousness. There’s pasta and meatballs, steak and potatoes, seasoned vegetables, and fish and chips. I take another bite of bread, not sure where to even start. Everything looks so amazing.
Noticing the name of the restaurant on the top of a container, I bark out a laugh. “Steaks and Stones?” I read aloud, noting the name of the place I will be ordering all future meals from. “Howling Rapids sure has a knack for naming their businesses,” I point out as I slide the steak and potatoes closer.
“Thanks. It was a battle picking a name in the first place. It came down to this or Lettuce Eat, but the guys all voted for this, so I went with it,” he tells me, tapping on the name of the restaurant on one of the lids.
I stop, a bit of garlic bread hovering an inch from my mouth, and stare at him.
“Wait. Are you telling me this is your restaurant?” I ask, completely astounded.
His smile is proud, and he nods. “Yeah.”
Gannon’s words snap up and bite me like a rattlesnake, but instead of venom, I’m filled with chagrin.
“Took me months to settle on the perfect bread recipe. I think the den gained ten pounds each when I was testing batches.” Ruger laughs, and it makes me smile. I look around at all the food he’s brought me, and a thought occurs.
“Did you…cook all of these dishes yourself?”
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. “I did.”
Something warm and fuzzy fills my chest because he didn’t just buy the food for me. He made it. With his own two hands. Who does that?
I stare down at the garlic bread. “It’s amazing.”
“Thanks. It was good to get back in the kitchen today. I’m glad you like it,” he adds softly.
I try very hard to shield that thought and the resulting tumult of emotions in my chest. Awe and guilt mix together and have a terribly sweet taste—almost like arsenic. This man might literally be killing me with kindness.
My throat tightens as I study the feast, my eyes darting up to Ruger where I then study him. I totally pegged him wrong, thinking gearhead or military or anything but chef. I’m going to start fixing all those assumptions right now. “Which one of these is your favorite meal?” I ask as I precariously cut a bite of ribeye, trying not to slice right through the bottom of the to-go container.
When I put it in my mouth, I have to stop myself from closing my eyes and moaning. Damn. I want to shove my entire face into the to-go box and gorge. But I keep my shit together and manage to cut another polite bite instead of picking up the steak with my hands and tearing into it, which my body suddenly sees as a totally reasonable option.
He’s watching me eat—no, not just eat—he’s watching me savor every bite like its foreplay. Those eyes of his are on my lips, and I can see he’s stopped breathing. His hands tense with restraint as I lick away a tiny crumb from my lips.
My nipples pebble and a pleased hum vibrates inside my chest at his attention.
“I think I have a new favorite,” he murmurs.
A warm sensation starts to drip down my body, pooling in places it’s not polite to talk about while having a floor picnic with someone you barely know.
I try to breathe through this odd rush of attraction. It’s not like I’ve never felt attraction before, but never anything even close to this. I stare up at him and my eyes grow hooded. Some new scent in the hallway starts to mix with the delicious smell of the food, and I realize—with a start—that it’s the scent of desire.
How or why I know that, I have no clue.
Clearing my throat, I gesture to the food, trying to break whatever spell just bippity boppity booed all over this hallway. “You’re not going to eat?” I glance around at the food boxes, and what seemed like way too many when he first arrived now seems like it’s one short of filling me up. A surge of possessiveness comes over me, but I bat it down.
His heated green gaze flicks from my lips to my eyes. “No, you eat whatever you want, I’ll take what’s left over.”
I snort at his answer. “If I eat everything I want, there won’t be anything left over.”
“Good. I brought dessert too,” he tells me, gesturing toward a bag next to him that I hadn’t noticed was still full.
“Well, well, Ruger. Flowers, lunch, and dessert…you’re playing for keeps,” I tease, digging my fork into the fluffiest mashed potatoes I’ve ever had.
“Who’s playing?” he quips back, determination written all over his face.
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I keep my mouth plenty full with his creations, each one so good I couldn’t pick a favorite if I tried.
“What about you? Where does the story of Noah Lupescu begin?”
I chuckle at the dramatic question and do my best to sound like some library storyteller. Waving my fork, I say, “I was born on a moonless night, one so dark even the stars were afraid to shine too brightly. A clap of thunder is the first thing I heard coming into this world, and my life has been nothing but a raging storm ever since.”