Page 99 of Lady and the Hitman
Hope sparked low in my chest. “Whatever you have in the fridge. I’ll figure something out.”
He leaned back against the headboard, jaw tight. “There’s steak. Some fresh herbs. A bottle of wine I was saving.”
I gave a small smile. “Perfect.”
But it wasn’t perfect.
Not really.
Because even as he nodded—reluctant, brooding—I could see the shift in his eyes. The possessive edge was still there, but now it had company. Hurt. Disappointment. Something bruised and dangerous.
I kissed his shoulder gently. “You’re not a secret to me, Ronan.”
He didn’t answer.
So I slid from the bed, wrapping one of his button-downs around my body, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen—hoping the act of cooking for him might do what words couldn’t.
Hoping it might say,I’m here. I want this.
Even if I wasn’t ready for the world to know.
The kitchen was sleek and masculine, all black matte cabinets and polished concrete counters. Industrial and modern, like the rest of the house, but with thoughtful details—a cast iron skillet on the range, a bunch of fresh rosemary in a tumbler of water near the sink, a worn cutting board that looked like it had seen real use. Not just a design element. A man lived here. Cooked here. Cared about the way things tasted.
I took a breath and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the fabric soft against my skin, the scent of him still clinging to the collar. My legs were bare, the hem barely covering the curve of my ass, but I didn’t bother changing. If I was going to tempt fate, I’d do it like this.
The fridge gave me just enough—two gorgeous ribeyes, golden potatoes, garlic, butter, herbs. I found a bottle of red on the counter already breathing, adecanter beside it like he’d hoped this night might turn out differently.
I couldn’t give him what he’d wanted.
But I could give him this.
Twenty minutes in, the kitchen smelled like home—like seared meat, caramelized garlic, rosemary crackling in a shallow pool of butter. I moved between the counter and the stove with practiced ease, plating the potatoes, warming the plates, pouring two glasses of wine that shimmered deep red in the overhead light.
I was just sliding the steak onto the plate when I felt it.
That shift in the air.
Like gravity had changed its mind.
I turned.
He stood barefoot in the doorway, black pants hanging low on his hips, chest still bare, hair damp and unruly from a towel run through it. He looked like something out of a fever dream—raw, ruffled, wounded.
His eyes swept over me slowly. Bottom to top. Like he was committing this version of me to memory.
“You really do know what you’re doing in here,” he said, voice lower now, more dangerous in its quiet.
I smiled, trying not to show how much his approval meant. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not.” He stepped into the room. “But I’m … affected.”
“Affected,” I echoed, arching a brow.
He stopped a few feet from me. Close enough for the heat to rise again. “You, barefoot in my shirt, cooking for me? That’s something I didn’t know I needed until right now.”
The air thickened.
I handed him a glass of wine, and when our fingers brushed, I felt it. The pull. The warning.
