Page 24 of The Confidentiality Clause
“Can I help?” I ask.
Ariel startles, then looks over her shoulder in surprise. I smile. Her reaction tells me she forgot I was here.
“Oh, uh, sure.” A gold band on her right ring finger glints in the golden-hour light as she gestures toward an array of vegetables on the counter. “Can you chop those veggies for a salad?”
I nod. “I can do that.”
Her genuine smile catches me off guard. It’s bright and sweet, a contrast to the smirk she usually throws my way.
“Thanks.”
We work back to back for a while. I cut grape tomatoes, cucumber, red onion, and a bunch of herbs. Ariel hums along to the music as she cooks. I don’t know if I’ve ever cooked with anyone. My mom was the type to shoo us out of the kitchen instead of having us help. Not that I do much cooking alone, either. My meals tend to be ready-made from the grocery store or take-out.
“What are you making?” I ask her as I dump all of the vegetables into the wooden bowl she placed nearby.
“Seared lamb chops with a balsamic reduction,” she says casually, as if that doesn’t sound like it belongs on a menu somewhere in a five-star restaurant.
“I didn’t know you were the chef type.”
“I’m not.” She lets out a soft laugh. “This is one of a few Pinterest recipes I’ve mastered since moving out.”
“Well it smells delicious,” I say, because I can’t come up with anything to tease her about. My cooking skills are limited to the chopping I just did, and I’m pretty sure, judging by how smushed the tomatoes look, even that ability is subpar.
“Let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells.”
She sets two white plates on the kitchen island and places two lamb chops on each before drizzling a dark red sauce over them. Then, she grabs a lemon out of a bowl on the open shelving above the sink and cuts it in half. The fresh scent of lemon mixes with the earthy herbs as she squeezes the juice over the salad. A few cracks of salt and pepper later, and it’s done. She tosses the vegetables and spoons them onto the plates.
“I’m going to eat on the porch swing,” she says as she hands me a fork and knife.
I look through the windows and see a wood swing lined with what looks like a small mattress and topped with green pillows. It looks like it’s meant for couples who want to snuggle as they watch the sun go down–like it is right now.
“I’ll hang out in here. I need to get some more work done.”
She raises a brow. “Did you think that was an invite?”
I push a hand through my hair. “My mistake.”
A playful smirk pulls at her pink lips.
“Pull a chair outside if you get tired of working yourself to death. I’m not sharing my swing.”
I return her smirk with one of my own. “And what about the hot tub? Is that open?”
The tops of her cheekbones turn the color of the flowers out front. “Not to you.”
She grabs her plate and heads for the door.
“I thought I was supposed to relax while I’m here?” I call after her.
“Go answer an email or something,” she shoots back, making me laugh.
The door closes behind her, leaving me alone with a plate of delicious food and jazz music that sounds a touch too romantic. I take my plate to the couch and try to focus on work. If I glance out the windows every now and again, who can blame me? The mountain view does have a certain pull to it.
Chapter twelve
Ariel Cambridge
I throw a pillow at Brock. It hits the side of his head before falling onto his open laptop.
