Page 10 of Forbidden Passions

We were close—too close—in the tiny kitchen. If I turned around, my face would be inches from his chest. I could feel his breath stirring my still-damp hair.

“Gabriel,” I said softly, “I’m going to turn around now, and you’re going to have to step back or we’re going to be inappropriately close.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Right.” He moved away, putting the counter island between us.

I turned, smiling sweetly. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Letting someone into your space for two seconds without growling.”

“I don’t growl,” he said, actually growling the words.

I laughed. “You absolutely do. It’s very mountain-man of you, so I’m not complaining.”

Something that might have been a smile tugged at his lips, but it was quickly suppressed. “Are you always this…” He gestured vaguely at all of me.

“Charmig? Witty? Observant?”

“Irritating,” he finished, but there was no real heat behind it.

“Only with people who need to be irritated.” I opened the cabinet, finding pasta and canned tomatoes. “You look like you haven’t been properly irritated in years. I’m providing a public service.”

This time, the smile escaped before he could catch it—just a brief flash, but it transformed his face, softening the hard lines and making him look younger, approachable.

But still dangerous.

Because a brooding, grumpy Gabriel was one thing. A Gabriel who could smile like that? That was a man who could break hearts without even trying. Mine included.

“You’ve got pasta, tomatoes, garlic...” I rummaged through his surprisingly well-stocked pantry. “Decent olive oil, even. Not bad for a hermit.”

“I like good food,” he said simply. “Just because I live alone doesn’t mean I eat like crap.”

“Fair enough.” I set the ingredients on the counter. “Cutting board?”

He opened a drawer, pulling out a well-used cutting board and a chef’s knife that gleamed with care. Our fingers brushed as he handed them to me, and that same electric current zipped through my body.

For the next twenty minutes, we worked in the small kitchen, moving around each other in a dance that gradually became less awkward. Gabriel turned out to be competent with a knife, chopping garlic with military precision. I managed the sauce, adding herbs I found in his spice rack.

It was... nice. Domestic in a way that should have felt strange with a man I’d just met but somehow didn’t.

“Are we eating at the table?” I asked, stirring the sauce.

He nodded, taking down plates and silverware. Max watched us from his spot by the fireplace, head tilted as if confused by the scene.

“I know, buddy,” I murmured. “Weird day all around.”

I caught Gabriel looking at me, an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“No, what?”

He hesitated, then said, “Just wondering how you can be so... comfortable. With all this.” He gestured around the cabin. “Stranded with a stranger during a storm.”

I considered the question as I drained the pasta. “I guess I’ve learned to roll with the punches. And you don’t exactly give off serial killer vibes.”

“That’s your standard? Not a serial killer?”

“Well, that and the fact that Max trusts you.” I smiled at him over my shoulder. “Despite your best efforts to be intimidating, Gabriel Holt, I think you’re probably a good guy.”

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