Page 23 of One Pucking Secret
“Well, I don’t think going somewhere public and making a spectacle would help much with…” I trail off, considering the implications of our high-profile situation.
Chloe’s head tilts, her eyes searching mine. “So, what are you suggesting?”
I smile, her question hanging in the air, ripe with possibilities for the evening that lies ahead.
The elevator dings, itssleek doors gliding apart to reveal my high-rise apartment, an expanse of glass and sharp angles that drink in the LA skyline. The sun is setting, casting a warm glow over marble tiles that seem to radiate their own light. Chloe steps inside, hereyes taking in the minimalist decor with a hint of awe.
“Why are we here?” she asks, her green eyes fixed on mine, searching.
“Thought I’d cook for us.” I shrug, trying to play it casual, though the adrenaline in my veins betrays me. “Better here than some restaurant with paparazzi breathing down our necks.”
“Good thinking,” she says, slipping off her shoes, her bare feet padding softly against the cool wood floor.
“Let me get that,” I offer, reaching for her jacket. My fingers brush against her arm, and an unexpected jolt runs through me as I hang her jacket beside mine.
I lead her toward the kitchen, a stainless steel and black granite oasis. I wash my hands, glancing over at my well-stocked pantry. Chicken parmesan with steamed veggies—it’s simple but with just enough effort to hopefully impress her.
“Need help?” Chloe’s voice is light, but there’s a readiness in her stance, a willingness to dive into the task.
I shake my head, turning to face her with a smile tugging at my lips. “Just sit back and have a sparkling water.” I grab two bottles from thefridge, placing them on the island. “I’ve got it covered.”
She hesitates, her gaze flicking to the stove before meeting mine again. Eventually, she grabs a bottle of sparkling water, cradling it in her hands. She takes a tentative sip, her eyes following my movements with an intensity that has nothing to do with the food.
The clink of cutlery and the hiss of chicken in the pan create a comfortable rhythm in the room. Every so often, our eyes meet, and something unspoken lingers in the air between us, like a dance neither of us is ready to name.
I flip the chicken, the breadcrumbs already turning a crisp golden brown, filling the kitchen with a savory aroma. Chloe leans against the counter, framed by the dimming light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the cityscape transforms into a sea of twinkling lights, mirroring the night sky above.
“Never took you for a chef,” she quips, a playful glint in her green eyes that matches the teasing tone of her voice.
I smile lightly, focused on coating each piece evenly. “My parents weren’t around much to cook, so I had to figure things out.” The words hang in the air for a beat, but I keep my hands moving, shaking off the excess crumbs.
“Self-taught?” She tilts her head, as though seeing a side of me she hadn’t before.
“Something like that.” I meet her gaze, and we share a brief moment of understanding before she turns her attention to the simmering sauce.
The mood lifts, light as steam rising from the pot, as I transfer the chicken to a hot skillet. It sizzles on contact, a clear sign that dinner is in full swing. Chloe moves to grab silverware from the drawer, her motions smooth and surprisingly natural in my space.
“Let me help set the table,” she offers, her voice light but determined.
“Chloe—”
“It’s the least I can do. Please,” she insists, flashing a smile as she waves the forks like a peace offering. I relent with a nod, amused by her persistence.
“Alright,” I concede with a grin. “But I’ve got the rest.”
We move in tandem, her laying down napkins and arranging the utensils while I plate the food: golden-brown cutlets topped with rich herb tomato sauce and a generous sprinkle of melted cheese, steamed veggies on the side, adding a pop of color.
“Looks amazing,” she breathes out, genuine admiration warming her words.
“Just wait until you taste it,” I say with a grin, feeling how the moment shifts, the simplicity of it pulling us closer in ways I didn’t expect. We settle across from each other at the glass table, the soft glow of the pendant lights casting a warm, intimate glow over the space. Every bite, every glance between us, turns the meal into more than just food—there’s an unspoken exchange, where the past brushes up against the possibility of something more.
The time flies by, and soon, the last bits of conversation fade into a comfortable silence that wraps around us. We move to the living room, sinking into the soft cushions, the air between us both easy and charged with a tension we can’t ignore.
My hand hovers over my phone, selecting a playlist with the care of a curator handling ancient artifacts. Music spills into the room, soft and inviting.
I rise. “Care to dance?” I ask, extending a hand toward her.
Chloe’s laughter, tinged with disbelief, rings out before she covers her mouth with her fingers. “You’re serious?” Her eyes sparkle with mirth, but also something else—hesitation, maybe.
