Page 43 of The Waiter at Table 6

I look out over the ocean, debating if I want to push this conversation. I’ve avoided talking about the subjects that I can sense make Vanessa uncomfortable—job talk included. Despite the increase in design magazines around the house, and her spending more and more time on the design apps on her iPad, Vanessa hasn’t shown any willingness to share more about it as a career option. So I’ve left it alone, and stuck to safer topics.

I’m not even really sure why I’m bringing it up now. The only thing I can attribute it to is this growing feeling of restlessness inside me, for her to see how amazing she is.

And how amazing we’d be together.

But when I look over at her, at her stiff posture and general defensiveness as she waits for me to push her further, I know now isn’t the time to have this conversation. She’s not ready.

So instead, I put us back on solid ground, where I make her laugh.

Jerking my head toward the kitchen, I ask, “Should we try your hand at cooking first? Or are we doomed to eat chocolate chip cookies for the rest of our lives?”

A surprised laugh—tinged with gratitude—bursts out of her. “Definitely not. What are we making tonight?”

I pull her to her feet and toward the kitchen. “Chicken Florentine. It was the first thing I learned to make and it’s still one of my favorite things to eat. Why don’t you grab one of the skillets and we’ll get started on the chicken? I don’t trust you not to pelt me with the flour.”

She bites down on her smile. “I told you that was an accident. I didn’t mean to spray you with the hose.”

Grabbing a nearby dish towel, I whip her once, making her yelp. Then I do it again.

“What are you doing?” she shrieks, trying to move out of range.

“Your pants are on fire,” I answer with a straight face.

She collapses against the counter in a fit of laughter.

It takes us twenty minutes to make dinner. She’s a natural, of course, but it’s fun being the one who gets to guide her. She’s riveted throughout the entire lesson, following every instruction and not letting herself get distracted even when I get distracted by how alluring she is.

That is until I notice her staring at my hands when I sprinkle some parmesan as the final step.

A slow grin stretches across my face. “Something wrong, babe?”

Her eyes dart up to meet mine, cheeks pinkening when she realizes I caught her staring.

“So, is it my hands in general?” I ask innocently, sprinkling some more cheese. “Or did we just unlock a chef kink?”

That blush deepens. But where the Vanessa of three weeks ago would have changed the subject, this Vanessa doesn’t shy from the question.

“Probably both,” she mumbles, her focus dropping back to my hands. “I’m also wondering how you would look baking some pastries.”

I let out a thoughtful hum as I wipe my hands off. “Maybe I’ll bake you some cookies,” I muse. Then I press her back against the counter, trapping her between my hands. Dropping my mouth to her neck, I nip at the delicate skin and add, “Maybe afterwards I’ll make a sundae with them and eat it off of you.”

I grin against her shoulder when I hear her sucked-in breath and feel her hands come up to grip my shirt. Finding new ways to turn Vanessa on has become my favorite pastime.

Her swallow is audible. “I’ll grab the ice cream tomorrow.”

I straighten with a laugh, moving my hands to her waist. “I love how down you are to try anything.”

Vanessa smiles, her eyes still hazy with lust. “I wonder whose influence that is.”

I grin proudly. “I don’t know but he sounds like a lot of fun.”

She rolls her eyes, still smiling. But enough of her desire has cleared that her attention catches on the meal we just cooked, simmering beside us on the stove.

It takes all the self-control I possess, but I finish the cooking lesson like a good teacher. Cutting off a piece of the chicken, I make sure there’s plenty of sauce on it and hold it up for Vanessa to try. “Okay, open up.”

She leans forward and pulls the bite off with her teeth.

“That’s amazing,” she says, eyes widening as her hand comes up to cover her mouth. “Why don’t you offer that at the restaurant?”

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