Page 22 of Jealous Boss

“Merci,” she gushes in relief, and just like that, my temperature triples.

“I hope you like it,” she says a little nervously.

It smells divine. “What is it?”

“It’s Cajun cream chicken pasta.” She peers into the pot and flashes me an anxious look before she ladles a helping onto my plate. “I followed the recipe, but I think the portions are too big? It came out a lot.”

“Then we’ll have leftovers for tomorrow.”

I turn to set the table and see she’s already done it. I go to get a bottle of wine from the fridge and remember she’s only twenty.

But then I also remember she’s been living in Europe where the drinking age is eighteen. So for all I know, she’s been drinking alcohol for over two years.

She looks over and sees my hand hovering over the wine. “It’s fine. You can drink if you want.”

“What about you? Do you drink?”

She nods. “We were allowed wine with our evening meals at college. But I know there are different rules here. I don’t mind, honestly.”

“Are you a good rule follower, Pia?” Christ, why did I have to ask that?

She holds my gaze for several beats. “Most of the time,oui.”

My cock thickens in my pants. I want to ask the question I know I absolutely shouldn’t.

Thankfully, another timer goes off somewhere, and she’s back to being nervous over food.

I bring the wine to the table, open it as she sets the dish down.

She’s holding her breath, watching intensely as I take a bite.

Exquisite sensations explode over my taste buds. I’d expected her to suck at this, but of course she didn’t. “Pia, this is really good!”

Her gorgeous dimples reappear and she smiles with delight. “You think so? Truly?”

Nodding, I take another mouthful. “You knocked it out of the park, baby.”

The moment the endearment leaves my lips, I want to snatch it back.

But then her pupils dilate. Her breath gushes out.

And I’m fucking screwed as I step over the thick red line.

6

Pia

Baby. Baby. Baby.

The word ping-pongs inside me like a bell struck too hard, echoing through every soft, secret part of me.

My fork hangs midair. My brain has gone blank.

There are no coherent thoughts—just a rush of heat and the low, thick sound of Ethan calling me baby with that rough gravel in his voice, like it caught on something dark and dangerous on the way out.

I finally manage to inhale, and it sounds like a gasp.

Because that’s what it is.

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