Page 38 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
I say, “A filthy Grey Goose martini with three blue cheese olives. Have you been conducting surveillance on me, Mr. Maxwell?”
“It’s my job to notice what the customers like.”
“So I’m a customer now. Interesting.”
“You’re not a paying customer, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Oddly enough, it does. I like knowing you haven’t taken any of my hard-earned money.”
His smile is knowing. “Of course you do.”
I take a sip of the martini—which is ice-cold and delicious—and ignore the way he’s looking at me, as if he knows all my secrets and is just waiting to see when I’m going to figure that out.
He opens a bottle of cabernet, grabs two wine glasses from a hanging rack, and motions toward the kitchen. “Shall we?”
“I hope you’re not expecting me to play sous chef, because honestly I couldn’t cook to save my own life. The only thing I know how to make is a reservation.”
“Then it’s good you have a friend in the restaurant business.”
I slip off the stool, careful not to spill a drop of my delicious martini. “Is that what we are, Mr. Maxwell? Friends?”
On opposite sides of the bar, maintaining eye contact, we slowly walk toward the kitchen. He says, “For the moment. Although if you keep calling me Mr. Maxwell, I might have to take you over my knee.”
My laugh is low and husky. “Promises, promises.”
I’m gratified to see a flush of color creep up his neck.
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In the kitchen, a table for two awaits, complete with crisp white linens, a low centerpiece of roses, a breadbasket, and a pair of lit white taper candles. Parker sets the wine and glasses on the table and pulls out my chair.
I ease myself into it, pretending not to notice the way his eyes are devouring the sight of my bare thighs. “This must really go over.”
“What do you mean?”
I gesture at the table, the kitchen. “This whole shut-down-the-restaurant-and-play-chef thing. I’m sure the women you do this for must really eat it up. No pun intended.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes. His look turns dark. “I’ve never done this for a woman before,” he says, and turns away.
Right. Because his back is to me, I roll my eyes.
Parker, stiff-shouldered, goes to one of the large stainless steel refrigerators against the wall and brings out a rectangular wood tray, wrapped with plastic. He sets it on the table, along with a small plate containing a chunk of pale yellow butter dusted with black flakes.
He points at the tray. “Manchego, Saint-André, and Humboldt Fog cheeses, accompanied by a foie gras terrine, orange marmalade, Marcona almonds, and fresh figs.” He points at the butter. “And salted truffle butter for the bread.”
I would normally make a smart remark about shitty truffles at this point, but I’m too busy wondering if it’s a coincidence that my three favorite cheeses, along with all my favorite accompaniments to those cheeses, are staring up at me from a bamboo tray. When I glance up at Parker, his face gives nothing away.
“Thank you,” I say, equally straight-faced. “This looks lovely.”
He inclines his head. Behind his stoic demeanor, I sense irritation mingled with mischief. It’s an interesting mix, and my intuition tells me to sniff a little closer. I decide to probe.
“So what else is on the menu for this evening, if I may be so bold?”
He gazes down at me, his eyes unreadable. “Tuna tartar, Scottish salmon with mashed leeks and asparagus, sautéed crimini mushrooms, and tres leches.”
He’s just recited a list of all my favorite foods.
I stare back at him, careful to keep my expression neutral. “I thought you said you hadn’t been conducting surveillance on me.”
