Page 45 of My Office Rival

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CYNTHIA

Icame downstairs to the scent of something delicious cooking and was greeted by the sight of Jason Elliott standing over the counter, in a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, bare feet on the old wood floor. He had classic rock playing from the speakers and a beer on the table. The sky outside the kitchen was dark, rain hitting the side of the house in sheets, winds gusting.

As I watched Jason, he sipped and then started whisking some olive oil into a small bowl. I leaned against the fridge while I watched. He really was hot, from his tousled blond hair to his forearms flexing while he stirred. Those forearms that had held me against the counter last night while he branded me with his mouth. I shifted restlessly, my body remembering how well he’d fit me, how each stroke of his tongue had made my head spin. Had I been avoiding him today? Yeah, a little. I felt a little too raw, a little too exposed.

He turned, saw me, and started.

“Hey. You cook?” I was surprised. We’d mostly been eating takeout, and I’d watched him drink a lot of protein shakes.

“I do. When I have the time, or I’m trying to distract myself,” he said sardonically, and turned to check something in the oven. Steam wafted out, and I sighed.

“Well, I’m glad you needed distraction because it smells incredible.”

He gave me a slow smile, and my stomach flipped. “So you’re assuming you can have some, then? I want something in exchange.”

I rolled my eyes. “We’re off the clock now, counselor. Stand down.”

“Oh, but this is so much more fun.” His eyes sparked as he took me in, and I shivered. My body clamored for more of what we’d started last night.

“You can collect later. Right now, I need to relax. Any chance you bought more wine?” I asked hopefully.

“What do you take me for, some sort of heathen?” He looked affronted, and I giggled. “After a certain someone drank my stash, I stocked up.” He gestured to the cabinets. “But be warned, I bought the most expensive wine they had, and it was fourteen dollars. You finished the stuff I bought near the airport.”

I shook my head as I went to open a bottle. “You’re such a city boy. I don’t think fourteen-dollar wine is going to kill you.” I took a sip and grimaced. “Okay, that’s not great.”

“Goes down easier after the first glass.” He winked and swigged his beer. “Or you could switch to beer.”

I crossed myself. “Not a chance.”

He laughed and opened the oven. He crouched down and pulled out a roasted chicken, glistening with butter and perfectly crispy.

I groaned. “That looks so good. I will do literally anything for a piece.” I hovered over the stove and he swatted at me with a towel.

“Get back, woman. Over there.” He pointed to the dining room table and snapped the towel at me. “Out!”

I laughed and retreated to the table, where I watched him finish cooking. Were we still rivals? The way my stomach dipped when he smiled at me told me maybe not. At least not at home.

He prepared two plates for us, and I covertly ogled his jaw clenched in concentration and the play of muscles under his shirt as he carved the chicken.

“White or dark?” he asked.

“Dark, please.”

He presented our plates with a flourish, and we sat at the table, not unlike how we did every day in the conference room.

“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. He didn’t have to help me, didn’t have to be friends with me.

He dipped his head and took a bite. “Not bad.”

I tried the chicken and groaned. “Are you freaking kidding? This is delicious. You’re a genius.”

“See, that’s how I know you can’t cook.” He grinned at me while I eagerly cut into my chicken again.

“Much to my disappointment.”

He shook his head. “Only people who can’t cook get this excited about a simple dinner.”

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