Page 8 of Starving for Her
“I hope it’s food,” I tell him, trying to focus on something other than his pristine jawline. For a split second, I wonder what it would be like to be with him. I mean, really be with him.
It’s something I’ve never done before. My outlook on relationships is to blame, and I guess my parents are to blame for that. All I’ve really done since I was thirteen is cook. I hate James for making me feel weak in my resolution to stay single and keep my head down, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
“I need you to cook me something,” he says with a smile that makes me want to melt like warm ice cream.
“I already cooked you something…” I reply hesitantly.
“I need to watch,” he replies.
What is this—some kind of food fetish?
“Watch…?”
“You could have had your friend there cook the pulled pork for you,” he tells me. “Or picked it up from a barbeque place on your way here.”
I have to laugh. “First of all, Gina can barely make ramen. Second of all, I’m not a liar. If I said I cooked it; I cooked it.”
James shrugs and steps closer, close enough that I can feel an almost gravitational attraction to his body. I fight the urge to examine his arms any further. There’s no way I could hide my gaze at this distance.
“No offense, gorgeous, but I’m used to people lying to me,” he says, his eyes sparkling with more than just an appetite for a good meal. “If you want this job, I need to see you cook for me.”
Every one of my life-learned instincts wants to tell him he can go stuff his job up his ass—that I won’t just perform for him like a trained dog. But I really, really need the job, and if I’m being honest with myself again, I also want to make him happy.
That realization almost knocks me on my ass, and he must see it in my face because he cocks his head.
“You all right?” he asks. “You look like I just asked you to marry me or something.”
“Marry you!?” I blurt out, covering my mouth as I giggle nervously. I’m almost coming apart at the seams. This isn’t good. “I—okay, I’ll cook for you, Mr. Russell—”
“James,” he corrects me.
“Mr. Russell,” I go on, sticking to my guns. “I’ll cook for you. Just show me to the kitchen. I assume you have the ingredients ready?”
“Oh, I’ve got more than just ingredients.”
I’m pondering what that statement means, when he moves right up beside me and slides his arm back around my waist like we’re a Hollywood couple walking up the red carpet past a long line of photographers. It’s unprofessional and I know that, but I let him leave it there for about half of the walk across the foyer before gently pulling away.
“What’s the matter?” he asks as he opens a door for me. “You weren’t this shy before.”
“I—I just need to make sure this remains professional,” I tell him. The look he gives me is one of almost pity…or something like that. It’s like he can read my mind and knows what I’m thinking. It scares me, but at the same time, thrills me.
I step forward through the open door and into the most incredible kitchen I’ve ever seen. It would definitely rival any Michelin starred restaurant in the world. It also looks like it’s never really been used.
There’s everything I could ever possibly need; stoves, burners, French tops, two sinks, two refrigerators, and a long countertop right down the middle. There was a steak sitting there beside a pan, some canola oil and some butter. And beside that, was an apron…a very sexy apron.
“What is this?” I ask, spinning around to face him. “A joke?”
“A test,” he grins.
“What kind of test?”
“I want to see if you can really cook. The way I need you to.”
His eyes seem to pierce right through me. He’s at least six-feet tall and I feel so small beneath him. My voice catches in my throat as I try to speak.
“The—the way you need me to?”
“That’s right, gorgeous,” he smiles. “And not like this.”