Page 17 of Rock Bottom

Church finally looked up from stirring the pot, a frown fixed on his face. “Did your staff not give you some sort of dossier when they hired me?”

“Maybe,” I said with a shrug. “But I don’t read the papers they give me. They’re boring. You’re not.”

He huffed. “I assure you, I am not that fascinating.”

“Try me?” I put my elbows on the counter, propping my head up and giving him my best puppy dog eyes.

Church looked over at me and arched an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Puppy dog eyes. They work on everyone.”

“Not on me,” he said and went back to stirring.

“Please?” I batted my lashes at him. “Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

The hint of a pink blush touched his cheeks, and I knew I had him.

He sighed and picked up a dish towel, cleaning his hands before turning to me. “What do you want to know about me?”

Everything, I thought, but I said, “Where at in London are you from?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does! There’s a huge difference between growing up in Beverly Hills and growing up on the south side of LA. Trust me on that.”

I pushed up from the counter and slid behind him, dipping a finger in the sauce as I went. Church slapped my hand, but not before I brought my finger to my mouth for a taste. God damn, I should marry this man for his food alone.

His gaze lingered on my finger as I popped it out of my mouth and I couldn’t help but smirk at the flash of hunger on his face. The man definitely wasn’t looking hungry for tikka masala.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “I don’t know anything about you, and you don’t seem to know much about me, so let’s do a trade. A question for a question.”

Church frowned. “That’s a drinking game.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” I said with a shrug, although it was always more fun when everyone was a little tipsy. Since there was no alcohol in the house, we’d have to do without and hope that my charming personality could carry us through. “What do you say, old chap?”

“Don’t call me that,” Church replied in a serious tone to let me know he wasn’t joking. “But…that seems fair. The chicken needs to simmer, anyway.”

I practically skipped over to the kitchen table, where I yanked out a chair, spun it around, and sat on it backwards. “Okay, I’ll start. Where in London is home?”

He sighed. “Holland Park.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Holland Park? I’ve been there. Nice neighborhood. Your parents must’ve been loaded.”

“Affluent enough to get me into the best schools. Conservative politics was good for their bank account, but less so for their son.”

“How so?” I asked.

Church shook his head. “You asked your question. Now it’s my turn. What about you? Boone said you were a Cinderella story. I presume that means you don’t have such a comfortable background?”

“That’s putting it mildly.” I snorted and tipped my chair back. “I grew up in the projects, poor as shit. Where I’m from, poverty’s not just a symptom. It’s the cause too. Shit’s generational.”

“Well, I promise you, the grass is not greener on the other side.” He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down.

“Brothers or sisters?” I asked.

He shook his head. “My parents could barely stand to be in the same house together half the time, let alone the same bed. You?”

“Five brothers,” I said with a nod. “Mom raised us all by herself after dad walked out, but she did all right. She was always working though, so we ran amok around the neighborhood. It’s a wonder we didn’t get recruited.”

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