Page 17 of Dining for Love

But even Goldie’s being weird. As though her flirting with him is just standard. A reflex that she does out of habit and nothing more. Now that I think about it, she stopped talking about how good-looking he was after the art walk.

Huh.

I push back into gear, walking into my little home and peeling off my clothes as I go, sighing in relief at being able to drop them in my usual trail.

After taking a shower and towel-drying my hair, I throw on some ratty yoga pants and a threadbare shirt that hangs off my shoulder, revealing the faded sports bra that’s seen way better days, I shove my feet into Birkenstocks and head the ten yards or so to Agatha’s back door. I eat over here about once a week, but for once, she told me I wasn’t going to be the one cooking. Which is a little concerning—Agatha isn’t the best cook—but it’s impossible to resist being fed a meal I didn’t have anything to do with.

I open the door and am immediately hit with the scent of something delicious. Butter, onions, garlic: the holy trinity of cooking, as far as I’m concerned.

“Agatha, this smells amaz—” I stop speaking as soon as I round the corner, the words stuck in my throat.

Standing in front of the stove, normal as you please, is Reid Dimples MacKinnon.

Cooking.

Of course.

Because why wouldn’t I throw on the absolute worst outfit and then see the hottest man on the planet?

My cheeks flame, sending heat down my neck and even to the shoulder exposed to the air. I heave a resigned sigh. “Reid.”

Tongs in hand, he turns, his eyes raking over me from head to toe. The goosebumps rising in the wake of his review are plenty enough proof of how my traitorous body feels about his perusal. It’s probably not even a second of time, but it may as well be an eternity. I now have a deep, palpable understanding of how a rabbit in the wild must feel when it stills in the presence of a predator, muscles tense and eyes and ears alert, hopeful that if it stays still, the predator won’t sense them. What the rabbit doesn’t realize, perhaps, is that its fear only heightens the predator’s pleasure in the hunt.

Reid flashes what I’m beginning to think of as his signature smile, making both dimples pop. A predator, indeed. “Evening, Willa Dean.”

I swallow. “Just Willa.”

“Evening, Just Willa,” he shoots back, not hesitating.

Agatha approaches with a glass of white wine and shoves it into my hands. “Drink, dear. You look a little peaked.”

I turn my glare on the old woman and lean in to whisper. “You could have warned me.”

She titters delightedly, her pale blue eyes bright behind chunky, red-framed glasses. “And miss the fireworks? Not a chance.”

I swear Reid chuckles under his breath, but the sizzling of the pork as it hits the pan to sear drowns the sound out.

So, let’s recap: He’s hot, he’s got muscles and dimples for days, he wears a uniform to work, he lives next door, he plays the guitar, he’s nice to old ladies, and he cooks for them, too.

Fantastic.

Great.

Love this for me.

I take another gulp of wine and gesture for Agatha to get a refill ready. I’m going to need it.

Agatha keeps a steady chatter going the entire time Reid works, and despite myself, I inch closer to watch. I can’t help it. Call it professional curiosity.

It certainly has nothing to do with the way his muscles flex as he sautés the spinach. I’m merely interested in how he tests the temperature of the pork. That’s the only reason I’m this close.

“I promise I won’t serve undercooked pork, Chef,” Reid says, winking at me.

The heat in my cheeks is only from the wine. Period.

Also, the butterflies that just took flight in my stomach at him calling meChef? Coincidence.

I cough, unable to even believe myself. I take a healthy stepback, not really understanding how I let myself get this close. Forget predator. The man is a freaking vampire. Don’t they, like, lure you to them or something? “I—I trust you,” I stammer.

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