Page 75 of The Christmas Wife

"How do you mean?"

"Want me to spell it out?" He takes a step forward.

I shake my head, "No, no, it’s fine. You’re right, I was, uh, thinking of other things."

"Oh?" He smirks, "Did it involve me in anyway?"

"Ah, your family actually. When, uh, when do we set off to see them?"

"In four days."

"Four days." I gulp, glance around the room. Four days, during which I still have to resist him.How the hell am I going to get through this?

"What should I do about breakfast?" I pout.

"I have an idea." His grin widens, "Why don’t I make my special instead?"

Twenty minutes, later I sit across the table from him. He’d, thankfully, changed into sweats and a long sleeved T-shirt, which damn, it only set off his broad shoulders even more. I mean, the only thing to beat the sight of this man unclothed is him sitting across the table, with Max at his feet. I’d cleaned up the kitchen by the time Weston had returned with the little guy in tow. I’d topped off Max’s bowl, which he’d wolfed down in minutes, before taking up his position by the table.

Now, he watches as Weston pours the cereal into the bowls. He tops his off with milk, offers it to me. I refuse. Yeah, for a chef, I don’t like milk. Not in my tea, nor in anything else.

"This?" I mutter, "This is your idea of cooking?"

"Hey, don’t mock it until you’ve tried it."

He uses his uninjured hand to dip his spoon into his bowl, and begins to eat.

"It’s not chocolate," I whine.

"Precisely." He scoops up more of the stuff.

I frown, "How the hell am I going to get through the days without cooking?"

"You could clean."

"Yeah, well." I shuffle in my seat. I absolutely hate household chores. Yeah, a tiny detail I’d left out. I know.

I glance down at my bowl, begin to scoop up the mixture. I eye it, then force some of it into my mouth. The flavors explode on my tongue. I crunch down, swallow it, reach for more.

"Not bad, huh?"

I raise a shoulder, "It’s all right." I eat some more. "I couldn’t use firewood to fire up the oven, could I?"

He stares across the table, "Probably not."

"Can I call someone to come and take a look?"

"I already called for service, but they won’t come until the storm blows over."

I frown, glance out the window. Snow comes down in heavy flakes. It does look bad, and if people are being careful before venturing out... "Maybe the roads will be blocked and we won’t be able to get there?"

"The storm’s supposed to blow itself out in 48 hours."

Right.

"Maybe the roads will be too slippery?"

"I’ve asked my driver to come by to take us there."

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