Page 87 of Go Cook Yourself

“I’ll race you back to mine,” he adds. We bring separate vehicles each morning so no one guesses that we’re together every night, although, of course, Kath knows.

“Winner comes first.”

But he’s already running out the door. “Don’t forget to lock up,” he shouts.

“You’re a cinnamon-smelling shithead.” But he’s already too far away to hear me. I’ll still win because I love making him come.

???

He pops the last chocolate-covered strawberry in my mouth. He prepared a living room picnic for me. The low lighting, watching my favourite programme while eating my favourite foods, which he hand prepared, and soft Christmas music playing in the background make this a date. He’s even wearing the lounge pants I love and a Christmas jumper I left on his bed as an early present.

But as long as we have sex tonight, I can pretend this is a prequel to fuck buddy times.

I kiss him hard on the mouth so that he gets the taste of my strawberry lips.

“Lush,” he murmurs before I settle against his chest. “I want to say thank you again for showing me that restaurant, Rubes.”

“Your face was amazing. It was worth it for the cold in my bones that took three scalding hot showers to get rid of,” I say with a smile. “You were so happy—like a kid in his first candy store.”

His chest rumbles against my back as he chuckles. I love sitting between his legs like this. It means he can play with my hair, kiss my neck, and hold me with those panty-wetting forearms.

“It gave me so many ideas. I’d love to make a place like that my own. When I tried to sleep last night, I came up with a menu and décor.”

“I know. You kept mumbling while I was trying to sleep.”

“As if,” he says, squeezing me. “You were snoring.”

“I was huffing in the hope that you’d shut up.”

I kiss his knuckles as he tells me about the appetisers on his dream menu. “And then I’d have this big opening ceremony for everyone who’s come to the cookery school over the last months. The day before, we’d have a soft launch where you and your family tried out the dishes. Kath would tell me that my bread was the best she’d ever eaten while trying to guess the ingredients, and Wicksy would chat up the waitress. Unsuccessfully, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Your parents would say the kindest things. Meanwhile, Flora would be beaming because she would have planned a great opening. Your desserts would be front and centre because you’re a baking goddess.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Put your desserts front and centre?”

“Why don’t you get investors, buy the pub, and make your dream a reality?”

The sigh against my shoulder breaks my heart. I want what he wants and know he could create this dream place.

I swallow the lump in my throat and try again. “It’s not just that you have the vision. You’re the most hardworking person I know. You’re always coming up with revolutionary ideas for the cookery school, and they work because you take people with you, and then you graft so hard. Why don’t you make your dream for the pub a reality?”

“Because of my parents.”

During the last week, he’s shared stories of his childhood, how he found his love of cooking, and the trouble he got into when he was young and then later in the kitchens, but I’m still surprised. “How come?”

He pulls me closer. “I can’t get credit. Over the years, my parents have stolen money from me in little ways, and then several years ago, I found out they’d taken out credit cards in my name but hadn’t paid them back.”

“Your own parents?”

He sighs long and loud. “My own parents. It was the final straw in our relationship. It’s why I wasn’t on the contract for the place I co-owned. So even if I were liked in this town and could find investors, which, based on your parents being the only ones who’d employ me, it seems unlikely that anyone would trust me financially. My credit rating makes me look reckless with money and worse than a risk.”

“But it’s not your fault.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

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