Page 45 of Emergence and Ascendance

I followed him down a hallway into a massive kitchen. There was a flow to the color scheme. We passed a living room that had comfy looking white sofas with black wood framing at the base and matching end tables. There were black and white paintings on the walls and the marble floors were white with flecks of black that matched the countertops in the kitchen which tied things together with black veining.

Christian walked to the wine fridge and selected a bottle. I couldn't help but enjoy the view. The man was unfairly attractive.

I noticed someone was in the middle of preparing our meal, and since it was just the two of us, I had to assume it was him.

"You're cooking?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Are you going to poison me?"

He smiled sexily. "That would defeat the purpose of having you here. I have plans for you that require you to be fully capable of making informed decisions." The way his voice dropped made my stomach tense.

"Red okay?"

"Perfect."

"Cabernet. It will pair well with the food."

He opened the bottle smoothly and poured two glasses. His forearms flexed with the movement and I felt like drooling. Something so simple shouldn't be so sexy.

"Dinner's almost ready. I hope you like steak."

"I do."

"Good, how do you like yours?"

"Well done."

He nodded and handed me a glass. "You can keep me company while I finish up."

I sat on a stool at the island counter, enjoying my wine and watching him work. He moved with confidence, flipping steaks, checking potatoes, and adjusting the vegetables cooking on a built-in stovetop grill.

"I'm impressed." I motioned toward the steaks then the vegetables he was grilling.

"Men cook, Scot."

Scot.

Every time he said my name like that, with familiarity, it made my stomach tense. The relaxed way it rolled off his tongue had me fighting a smile.

"I know but based on the way all this smells. You're good at it."

"Cooking is a useful skill. When my staff isn't here I still need to eat."

"So no takeout for Christian Devereaux?"

"Occasionally." He flipped the asparagus then glanced at me over his shoulder again. "But I prefer knowing exactly what I'm eating."

That statement was weighted, and based on the way his eyes slowly moved the length of my body before he turned back to the grill, it was also loaded with a meaning that didn't have a damn thing to do with food. Acknowledgement shot down my spine and had me taking down another gulp of wine.

"Do you cook?"

"Enough to survive. I'm pretty busy so I don't have much time to spend in the kitchen. My options are limited."

He nodded and I didn't feel any judgment. More like he was just noting the details.

"I pretty much approach cooking like everything else in my life with intention and attention to detail."

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