Page 135 of Silver Fox Puck

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I made dinner.”

I glance toward the stove, realizing that there’s a pot simmering on the burner. The delicious smell of garlic and something rich fills the air, making my stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

“You cooked?” I ask, teasing but also a little stunned.

His brow lifts. “What, you think I survive on protein shakes and takeout?”

I purse my lips, pretending to consider. “Honestly? Maybe.”

He huffs out a laugh, the sound deep and warm, before turning toward the stove. My heart does something stupid in my chest at the way he moves through his own kitchen, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he stirs the sauce.

This is domestic. Intimate. Normal.

And it’s making me fall even harder.

I watch him for a moment, the quiet between us thick but comfortable. Then I push off the counter, closing the distance between us, and pluck the wooden spoon from his hand. His fingers graze mine in the process, sending a shiver up my spine.

I dip the spoon into the sauce and take a slow taste, letting the flavors settle on my tongue before humming in approval. “Okay, Silver Fox. I’m impressed.”

Grant’s gaze flickers, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a full smile. “That better not be a dig at my age.”

I shrug, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pot. “If the nickname fits…”

His hand moves so fast I don’t see it coming. One second, I’m standing there, smug as hell. The next, his fingers are curling around my wrist, tugging me in until my back is against his chest.

Heat rushes through me. His body is solid, firm, the slow rise and fall of his breath pressing against my spine.

His lips brush my ear, his voice a low rasp. “You really want to test me tonight, Flight?”

A shiver skates down my spine. My grip tightens on the spoon, my breath slowing just enough for him to notice.

For a long moment, neither of us moves.

Then, before I can formulate a response, Grant reaches around me, takes the spoon from my hand, and goes back to stirring like nothing just happened.

I blink. “Did you just—”

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says smoothly.

My jaw drops.

Oh, he’s going to pay for that.

I take a slow step back, my eyes narrowing as I slide onto a stool at the counter, watching him with calculated patience. He knows exactly what he just did. He also knows I’m plotting my next move.

The smirk he gives me confirms it.

Fine. He wants to play? I’ll play.

Dinner is ridiculously good. And I’m impressed, but I keep my compliments to myself.

Because Grant Maddox is not allowed to be this infuriatingly attractive, emotionally soft under all that gruff sex appeal he first gave me, and also a damn good cook. It’s unfair.

I twirl a forkful of pasta, chewing slowly, watching him from across the small table in his kitchen. He eats with the same quiet confidence he does everything else. No rush. No hesitation. Just completely at ease.

It’s disarming.

Because I should feel awkward. I should feel off balance, sitting across from a man I had no intention of seeing again after that first night. A man who, despite my best efforts, is somehow pulling me deeper into his life with every moment I spend with him.

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