Page 9 of The Crowned Garza
With a barely-there smirk and a mock bow, he motions for me to go inside. “Your Highness.”
I take a step to pass him, then stop and narrow my eyes at him. “Can I trust you not to strangle me to death and feed my dismembered body through a meat grinder?”
“You shouldnevertrust me.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. And Idon’t. Common sense screams at me that “safe” is anywhere this man isn’t. Still, I roll my eyes and walk in.
A squeal gets lodged in my throat at the sheer stainless-steel beauty that spreads out before me. “Oh, wow, she’sbeautiful,” I whisper.
Guy brushes past me with silent animosity, but I refuse to let his bad vibes ruin this gorgeousness. While he moves around the state-of-the-art kitchen with familiarity and ease, opening this and that, grabbing things here and there, I wander around in awe, dragging my fingertips over the appliances. This is the fanciest, shiniest restaurant kitchen I’ve ever been in. Belongs in a magazine. Were it any glossier, it would be a room of mirrors.
“Now this is the kinda kitchen I wanna work in when I graduate from culinary school,” I mumble. “How do they even manage to keep it so…spotless?”
“You want to workforsomeone?” Guy comments through a patronizing snort. “Not just snap your fingers and have your own restaurant handed to you?”
“Maybe if Iwantedto own a rest—”
All words of sass, all train of thought, all cognizance and basic mouth function disappear when I whip around and my gaze settles on Guy at the prep station, who’s folding up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt.
Sweet Mary, Joseph, and the Lamb. Is forearm-gasm a thing? Because I think I’m having one right now.
Not only are his forearms sexily veined, they’re also artistically inked. One is adorned with various art in colored ink. The other has a rosary wrapped around it all the way down, with the cross settled artfully on his inner wrist.
Well, damn. Is this why he’s always covered up from neck to toe? What else is he hiding under that getup?
Amusement colors his voice when he asks, “All right over there,regalità? Swallowed a bug?”
No. No, I am not.
Clearing my throat, I jut up my chin and don a neutral expression. “Every restaurant owner I know personally is always stressed out.” My voice is slightly cracked, so I clear it again. “Career-wise, my highest goal is to be a sous chef. But I’d be equally happy with chef de partie. I wanna pursue my passion but still have a fun, sociable life, you know? Maybe much, much later in life, I’ll wanna own, but definitely not soon. Youth is meant to be enjoyed.”
“Choice is a blessing,” he replies quietly, more to himself than to me.
My eyes are drawn to his forearms again as he gestures to the pair of stainless-steel stools across from the prep station. “Have a seat.”
Erotic forearms shouldnotbe a thing. Forearms are stupid; no real use. Maybe good for doing planks, but that’s it. On top ofallthe things there already are to make a woman weak in the knees, when didforearmsbecome one of them?
With effort, I tear my gaze away, and it’s only then I register all the ingredients gathered. “Wait, you’recooking?”
“Yes.” He plucks up a utility knife. “Sit.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
His stare meets mine, hard and unblinking. Then, with a barely audible grunt, he sets down the utility knife and picks up a butcher knife, flipping it over and over again between his fingers with impressive skill. “That meat grinder idea is starting to look appealing,” he mumbles, then flips the knife one last time before using it to point at the stools again.
Very well. Wordlessly, I amble over to the stools, pick one up, and take it around to where he is.ThenI sit.
With a small shake of his head, he begins slicing potatoes. “Do you know what brats deserve?”
“A spanking?”
“That’s what good girls pretending to be bad deserve. A spanking is arewardin that case.” He stops slicing and moves close to me. “But you, Tillie Garza, there’s nothinggoodabout you.”
My heart halts in my chest when he slides the knife under my chin, using it to tilt my face up gently.
There are two diverging paths within my heart right now, and my heart’s uncertain about which path to take. Hammer heavily in fear or drum wildly in lust? Confused, it sends prompt signals to my brain for advice, but my brain is equally perplexed.Are we aroused, or are we scared?
Breath held, I wait for my organs to deliberate.
