Page 42 of The Twilight Theft

You can do this, Jayce.

Mr. Scowly Face opened the door, as irritatingly sexy as always. His corded forearms were on full display below the shoved-up sleeves of a black Henley. “You showed this time. Excellent.”

“I was busy earlier, but I—” With my first step inside his apartment, I cut off. A wall of intoxicating fragrance hit me. “What is that?”

It was roast beef or steak or some other red meat, notes of garlic, fried mushrooms, and fresh bread all melding together. I was officially in heaven.

“It’s seven o’clock. I was starting to think you wouldn’t show, so I started my dinner.”

I walked past him in his cute little black apron, following my nose. Through a small entryway, past a piano in the corner, through an arched opening to the dining room—papers all over the table, that was what I was supposed to be doing, but I was powerless—through a single doorframe into a black-tiled and gleaming stainless kitchen. The aromas overwhelmed me and I stopped in the middle of the galley, closed my eyes, and inhaled.

Drew chuckled behind me. “Beef Wellington, potato puree, and I was about to put some vegetables in the oven to roast.”

“Don’t tell me you’re an amateur chef.” I couldn’t handle that.

“There’s nothing amateur about me.”

Something about the way he said those words settled deep in my belly. Maybe a little deeper. Maybe I couldn’t totally work with Drew. “Scarlett wanted me to review a few scenarios with you. Then I can leave you to your dinner. How long do we have?”

“It should be ready in a half hour or so.”

“Then we need to work fast!” I turned to head back to the dining room and the paperwork, but he remained in the doorway.

“I made enough for you. I assumed if your stomach was full, you’d be more productive.”

Working very hard to maintain a carefree attitude, I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. “That I will be. Is there dessert, too?”

His nostrils flared and he narrowed his eyes, a look that settled even lower than the amateur comment had. “I made sticky toffee pudding. But if you don’t like that—”

“Hold up there.” I raised a hand to stop him. “‘Don’t like’ and ‘sticky toffee’ do not belong in the same sentence.”

“Your palate may not be discerning”—the corner of his lip twitched—“but at least it will be appreciative.”

“I feel like that was an insult.” I leaned back against the opposite counter since he didn’t appear to be moving. “But since you’re going to feed me, I won’t complain.”

“That’s all it takes to win you over?”

I shrugged. “I’m a simple girl.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t believe Evelyn Reynolds hires anyone who’s simple.”

“Emmett has his moments.”

“I suspect Emmett pretends to have his moments but rarely does.”

“Possible.”

Drew approached me, slowly, stopping inches away from me, like he had yesterday. Like he had at Gideon’s.

He leaned forward, his delicious cologne mingling with the scents of food. One hand landed on the counter next to me.

Don’t inhale the cologne, Jayce. Don’t do it.“Didn’t the CIA teach you about personal space?”

“They did.” He moistened his lips, and every cell in my body contracted. “However, you’re standing in front of the bottle of wine I opened.”

“Oh!” I shoved off the counter, darting through the narrow opening he’d left.

What was he doing? Pretending to flirt with me? Was this payback for messing with him at Gideon’s office? For stealing his stuff?

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