Page 22 of Billionaire Wolf Needs a Chef

"Thanks," I replied, my heart racing. "I'm glad you like it."

He set the spoon down, his gaze never leaving mine. "Ivy, we need to talk."

I swallowed hard, nodding. "I know."

I'm not good at this. Relationships and emotions, they've never been my strength. But with you, I want to try."

My heart skipped a beat, and I took a tentative step toward him. Reaching up, I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. "Me too. We can't keep running in circles around each other. That's all we can ask of each other, to try."

He hesitated for a moment before leaning in, his lips brushing against mine in a kiss that was tender and tentative. It was different from the passion we'd shared during our trip to Paradise Peaks. This was softer, more intimate, as if we were both testing the waters of this new reality.

When he pulled away, I could see the conflict in his eyes, but also a glimmer of hope. "We'll take it slow," he said, his voice firm but gentle.

"Slow," I agreed, my heart still racing from his touch.

That evening, Cameron invited me to his penthouse to discuss my ideas for the future direction of the new meal kits.

It was the first time I'd seen his home, and it was exactly what I'd expected, cold, minimalist, and impeccably clean. The space felt more like a showroom than a home, with its stark white walls, furniture with clean lines, and complete lack of personal touches. It was a testament to his loneliness.

"This is something," I said, trying to suppress a laugh as I looked around.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching in what might have been amusement. "It's functional."

"Functional," I repeated, shaking my head. "You know, a little mess never hurt anyone. It's called living."

"I prefer order," he said, his tone dry. "It's predictable."

"Predictable is boring," I teased, setting my bag down on the stone kitchen counter. "Let me show you how to have fun."

I yanked open his fridge and looked at him in disbelief. "Who organizes their vegetables by color?"

His jaw clenched. "I like being organized."

Relax, Fitzgerald." I tossed him an onion. "Tonight, I'm teaching you how tolive."

I rummaged through his fridge, pulling out ingredients for a simple pasta dish. Cameron watched me with a mix of fascination and discomfort, as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of the chaos I was creating in his pristine kitchen.

"You're just going to start cooking?" he asked, sounding slightly bewildered.

"Why not?" I said, grinning as I chopped an onion. "Cooking is therapeutic. Plus, I'm starving."

He hesitated for a moment before rolling up his sleeves and stepping closer. "Let me help."

When his hands closed over mine to correct my grip on the knife, his chest pressed flush against my back. His growl vibrated through me.

His hands were unfairly steady for a man who didn't work in a kitchen every day.

"Slowly. As you said, it's about living, not rushing through the motions," Cameron murmured, his chest pressed against my back as he guided my hand. His fingers lingered, rough callouses scraping my wrist, before retreating.

I swallowed hard. "You're good at this."

A shadow crossed his face. "Necessity." He picked up a carrot, slicing it with military precision. "When my mother first got sick, I was nine. Someone had to feed us."

The knife stilled in my hand.Nine.

He didn't look up. "She worked doubles at the diner. I'd stand on a stool to stir the soup." A bitter chuckle. "Burned it half the time. And then, when she finally got too sick to work, I took over cooking at home. It was my way of taking care of her."

My throat tightened. No wonder his meal kits prioritized foolproof recipes.

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