“Have to do that.” I finished her sentence. “But I’m going to. Go. Rest.”
She stood and trudged to the bed, sliding beneath the covers. Then she clung to a pillow, holding it close to her chest. “How did you become a chef?”
“That’s not sleeping.”
“Tell me anyway.”
I walked to the wall and hit the light switch, bathing the loft in darkness. “My mom is a fantastic cook. When I was growing up, my dad was always so busy on the ranch. He’d take Griff with him a lot but I was too young, so I’d stay home with Mom and my twin sisters when they were babies. She’d cart us to the hotel with her during the day, and then in the evenings, she’d put them in swings or a play area and set me on the counter to help make dinner.”
My earliest memory was from when I was around five, the summer before I’d started kindergarten. Mom had been pregnant with Eloise. The twins had been little and were always chasing me around. Griff had been learning to ride and I’d felt left out.
Mom had been busy with something so I’d told her I’d make dinner. She must have thought I was kidding because she’d agreed.
It wasn’t so much the plates of chips and crackers that I remembered, it was the shock on her face when she’d come into the kitchen from wrangling the twins and found me sitting on the counter, attempting peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“I had other interests. Sports. Horses. I spent my summers working on the ranch beside Griffin and Dad. But I always gravitated back to the kitchen. When I finished high school, I knew college wasn’t for me, so I enrolled in culinary school.
Learned a lot. Worked at some amazing restaurants until it was time to come home.”
Memphis hummed, a dreamy, sleepy sound.
And her son was totally out on my chest.
It was probably safe to put him down, retreat to my own bed, but I kept walking. Just in case.
“Why is it named Knuckles? The restaurant?” Memphis’s voice was no more than a whisper, muffled by the pillow.
“It was my nickname in culinary school. My first week I tried to impress an instructor. Got cocky. I was grating some carrots and not paying attention. Slipped and grated my knuckles instead.”
“Ouch,” she hissed.
“Had a bunch of cuts and made a fool of myself.” A few scars still remained on my hand.
“And earned yourself a nickname.”
“When we did the restaurant remodel, I sat down with the architect and he asked me about a name for a sign. Knuckles popped into my head and that was it.” I drifted off my path and carried Drake to the crib in the corner, bending low to set him down.
His arms instantly rose above his head. His lips parted. His eyelashes formed half-moons above his smooth cheeks. He was . . . precious.
My hand came to my chest, rubbing at the sting. Then I stood and glanced to the bed.
Memphis was asleep, her lips parted too. A man could lose himself in that sort of beauty.
Before I did something stupid, like stand there and stare at her until dawn, I eased out of the loft, turning the lock on the door behind me before heading to my own bed.
Sleep should have come easy. It was quiet. Dark. Except every time I closed my eyes, the image of Memphis would pop into my head. The blond hair sweeping across her cheek. The part of her lips. The soft swell of her breasts beneath that night shirt.
Maybe her kid’s crying hadn’t been keeping me from sleep.
Maybe it was the woman herself, haunting my dreams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MEMPHIS
The thud of footsteps climbing the loft’s staircase and the soft knock that followed were becoming my favorite sounds. He might only come up to hold Drake, but every time Knox showed at my door in the middle of the night, it was like a warm hug.
It had been a long time since I’d been hugged.
He came right inside, toeing off his shoes before stealing a crying Drake from my arms. A flash of pain crossed his face, like he’d gotten a papercut. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I swore I saw it each time he held Drake. It was gone in an instant as Knox set out on his regular path across the room.
“What’s the problem tonight, boss?” That smooth, deep voice was as comforting to me as it was my son.
“Sorry we woke you up.”
He turned at the wall and frowned. Knox, I’d learned, wasn’t a fan of my apologies.
I made them regardless.
“Rest, Memphis.” He nodded toward the bed, but I went to the couch, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders.
In the past month, I’d spent twelve nights on this couch, watching as the most handsome man I’d ever laid eyes on