Page 11 of Ruined By Protection
"By compensating him for his flexibility," Matteo corrects, his voice amused. "And I didn't terrify him. I just... persuaded him."
I snort. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you call it?" He glances over his shoulder, his expression genuinely curious.
"I'd call it..." I search for the right word, "intimidation with style."
He laughs, a rich sound that echoes off the stainless steel surfaces. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Matteo peers into the massive walk-in refrigerator, his broad shoulders blocking my view. "Well, well," he says, satisfaction coloring his voice. "Look what we have here."
He steps back, revealing the contents of the fridge. My eyes widen as I spot what he's looking at—a tray of fresh lobster tails and what looks like a container of some kind of dipping sauce.
"Lobster?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice. "I was thinking more along the lines of a sandwich."
"We're in The Remington Hotel, Hazel." Matteo's voice carries a hint of amusement as he pulls out the tray. "You don't eat sandwiches at The Remington."
"I eat sandwiches everywhere," I counter, but my eyes are fixed on the lobster tails. They're massive, bright orange shells glistening under the lights. "Those look expensive."
"They are." He sets the tray on the stainless steel prep table and moves with surprising confidence through the kitchen, gathering a few small plates and utensils. "And probably destined for some corporate dinner tomorrow. I think we deserve them more."
I watch him, fascinated by his ease in this space. He moves like he owns it, opening drawers and cabinets without hesitation.
"How do you know your way around a professional kitchen so well?" I ask.
"I appreciate good food." He glances up at me, a spark in his dark eyes. "And I pay attention to details."
He lifts the tray and nods toward a door at the back of the kitchen. "The larder should be quieter."
I follow him, curious despite myself. The larder is a small room with a large wooden table in the center, surrounded by shelves stocked with dry goods and spices. It smells of herbs and flour.
Matteo sets the tray on the table and suddenly turns to me. In one smooth motion, he lifts me by the waist and sits me on the edge of the table. I gasp, my hands automatically gripping his shoulders for balance.
"What are you doing?" I manage to ask, though my voice comes out huskier than I intended.
He stands between my knees, his hands still at my waist. "Making sure you don't fall over from hunger."
His face is inches from mine and I can smell his cologne which makes me want to lean closer. His eyes drop to my lips and heat rushes through me so fast I go dizzy.
Or maybe that's the hunger.
"I think—" I swallow hard, trying to regain my composure. "I think we need crackers. For the claws."
His lips curve into a knowing smile, but he doesn't call me out on my obvious deflection. "These are just tails. No claws."
"Oh." I feel my cheeks warm. "Right."
"But we do need to get them out of the shell." He steps back, giving me space to breathe, and picks up one of the lobster tails.
I expect him to reach for a knife or some tool, but instead, he grips the shell with both hands and cracks it open with a single, powerful twist. The sound makes me jump slightly, but I'mmesmerised by the sight of his strong hands breaking through the hard shell with such ease.
"Show-off," I murmur, but I can't look away.
He separates the meat from the shell like scooping a woman’s flesh from a silk gown, then tears off a bite-sized piece. Instead of setting it on a plate he holds it up to my lips.
"Open," he says softly.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This feels more intimate than a kiss would be—him feeding me with his bare hands, watching my mouth with such intensity. I should refuse. I should insist on using the plates and forks he gathered.
