His straight brows drew together. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, tracing the edge of the counter. “You said it was too personal, me knowing.” I looked up and met his eyes. “I wondered if maybe you wouldn’t want to make me anything anymore.”

Lucian’s stern expression belied the softness of his tone. “Honeybee, I’ll make you anything you want.”

The promise slid over me like hot caramel. Anything I wanted. I knew he would.

My fingers curled into a fist to keep from reaching out. “Surprise me.”

His smile was wide and brilliant. Free. “You’re on.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Emma

My favorite place on the estate became the kitchen. At least, when Lucian occupied it. Sunny and warm and filled with luscious scents like baking bread or rich chocolate, the space felt both safe and happy. It was a delight to curl up on the deep padded bench that ran along one wall and faced the kitchen island and stove, where Lucian worked.

Over the past few years, I’d been so busy with Dark Castle that I’d never truly gotten into cooking or baking shows. I reconsidered them now. Watching Lucian move about the kitchen, all firm confidence and loose-limbed grace, was pure porn for me. Heaven help me, but the way his ropy forearms moved as he briskly whipped up egg whites or heavy cream—because the man never used a blender for these things—would get me so hot and bothered I’d have to press my thighs together under the cover of the battered farm table.

And when he kneaded dough? Sweet baby Jesus. He did this little grunt every time he thrust the heels of his hands over the springy mass. A deep rumbling grunt as his whole taut body rocked toward the countertop. And then there was the pullback, when he’d breathe in, those wide shoulders of his rolling in a steady rhythm.

Grunt. Thrust. Breathe. Pull.

It was a wonder I didn’t orgasm on the spot watching him.

“I can feel your eyes on me,” Lucian deadpanned, not breaking rhythm.

I bet you can.

“It’s mesmerizing.”

He grunted again, this time one that I knew meant “Whatever floats your boat, Em.”

I smiled. “I could film this and have an instant hit on my hands.”

He glanced my way, all cool wintergreen annoyance—belied by the slight smile trying to pull at his lips. “Ex–hockey players baking?” He turned his attention back to the dough. “I guess there’s a certain spectacle about it.”

“You seriously underestimate your appeal here, Brick.”

With a scoffing grunt, he neatly shaped the now-smooth dough into a ball and set it in a large bowl before covering it with a damp cloth. With that, he washed his hands and headed for the fridge.

“What’s next?” I asked, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Piecrust for the tomato tarts we’re having for dinner.” His lips quirked. “You’re welcome to help at any time.”

“We both know it’s better for everyone if I don’t.”

Lucian chuffed a half laugh. “No comment.”

He kept trying to teach me, but so far, I’d been a complete disaster in the kitchen. If there was a cooking gene, I’d clearly missed out on it. As Lucian set a large hunk of butter on the counter and grabbed the flour, I smiled and read a few emails that popped up on my iPad.

Other than what I was calling the pool incident, we hadn’t acknowledged the attraction between us. But it was there, growing and heating. And yet so was our friendship. I liked him, damn it. More than was safe. Attraction could ebb and flow, but truly liking another person meant it would hurt more to lose them.

Considering I didn’t have Lucian in any long-term capacity, it worried me. Even so, I couldn’t deny the contentment I felt in sharing his precious workspace. He outright chased everyone else out of his kitchen when he was in it. Only Amalie, and sometimes Tina, got away with a quick visit, but even they would be gently eased out the door after a minute or two.

“What’s that grin all about?” came his darkly amused rumble.

The other thing about being in the kitchen with Lucian? He noticed everything I did, even when I thought all his concentration was on his food.

“Never you mind.”

He hummed.

I clicked on my email and found one from my agent. My smile grew wobbly.

“Now you have to tell me about that one,” Lucian said dryly.

I glanced up and found him looking at me with one dark eyebrow quirked in imperious impatience. I snorted. “Why is it that I’m called Snoopy, when you’re nosy as hell?”

“I’m only nosy about you. You’re snoopy with everyone.”

My stomach fluttered at the confession that he only wanted to know more about me. I didn’t show it, though, and rolled my eyes before reading a bit more of the email. “It’s from my agent. A couple of casting directors have sent over scripts that might be promising.”