Page 18 of Dining for Love

He raises a perfect eyebrow. “Do you? Trust me?” His voice dips low as he speaks, and damn if I don’t bend a little closer to hear him.

Crap!I’m doing it again. Swallowing, I straighten and take yet another very firm, very deliberate step away. “Of course. Seems like you know your way around the kitchen.”

He presses a knuckle to the pork, nods, then pulls the towel off his shoulder and opens the oven to stick the entire pan in.

Listen, I know I said watching him eat my food was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

I was wrong.

Watching himcookis the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“You’re staring,” he whispers teasingly, shutting the oven door and flipping the towel back over his shoulder in what’s clearly a practiced move.

Mother. Fucker.

My face is flaming, and I should probably admit to myself that it’s not the wine.

I will do no such thing.

Instead, I shrug. “It’s just nice for someone else to cook for me, that’s all.”

“Is that all?”

I nod decisively and repeat it. “That’s all.”

He studies me, and as his mossy-green eyes flit from one part of my face to the other, I have no doubt he knows I’m lying.

Agatha, the conniving minx, stays uncharacteristically silent while Reid and I have…whatever it is we’re having.

When dinner is ready, Reid plates the meals as carefully as if he’s cooking in a five-star restaurant, using the towel to wipe off excess sauce. He serves Agatha first, then me, before bringing his own plate to the table.

This asshole.

My throat thickens at the beauty of the presentation. Beautifully cooked medallions of pork tenderloin lie on a bed of sautéed spinach and risotto, with thinly-sliced ribbons of carrots coiled perfectly to the side. A dollop of cranberry compote is to the side as well. The display is top tier. I have never put this much effort into a meal for Agatha, and twin feelings of shame and competition roar to the surface.

“Oh, Reid, what a treat!” Agatha says as she takes in the food. “Don’t you think this is wonderful, Willa?”

Both of them look at me expectantly as I unfold my napkin and lay it on my lap. “Beautiful,” I agree, my voice remarkably even.

We dig in, and I take it all back. Becausenowhe’s the asshole. The pork is fucking perfect, evenly seared on the outside, tender and juicy on the inside. I couldn’t improve on it if I wanted to, and that pisses me off.

What can I say? I’m a perfectionist.

Thankfully, the risotto is fine. Well, it’s more than fine, but I can make a better risotto. The spinach is perfect, not too overdone and not too garlicky.

“What do you think, Chef?” Reid asks.

Those stupid butterflies take off again at the moniker. “It’s…really good,” I grudgingly admit.

The smile on his face is enough to melt my panties. There’s pride and accomplishment, and he’s freakingbeaming. “Really?”

“Are you kidding? You know you’re a good cook,” I say, then I shovel another bite into my mouth. Ugh. Delicious. All of it. I hate it.

He’s still smiling. “That’s high praise, coming from you.”

I blink. Does he—does he actually care what I think? Impossible.

We finish dinner, Agatha keeping a steady stream of chatter going about the various goings-on around town.

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