Page 31 of BillionHeir
“Damn, you don’t hold any punches, do you?” I ask once I have collected myself.
“Nope,” she says playfully, before turning around and walking toward the kitchen.
I smile to myself. No one besides Tristan and Liam have the courage to talk back to me like that.
That is one of my favorite things about her.
Chapter 12
_______________________
Chloe
He can’t be serious.
I am still reeling from the walk between the pool and the house. The connection between us was electric and I separated from him as soon as I could, but not before my commitment to stay as far away from him as possible was already weakened. I was hoping to come into the kitchen and have a few moments by myself to recover, but instead, I can hear Maxwell’s slow and steady footsteps following after me. Whether I want his help or not, I am goingto get it.
I try to think of a quick and easy recipe to limit the amount of time that we have to spend in the same room together. I have been pretty successful keeping him at arm's length since we almost kissed two weeks ago. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold him off forever, especially not as he regained his strength, but I was hoping that I would have more time to fortify myself.
I find my resolve weak when he is in the same room as me. I fantasize about what it might be like if I hadn’t pulled away from him. If I were here under other circumstances, maybe things could be different. But then I remind myself that he was in a life-threatening accident, and he is vulnerable. My physical desires should be the furthest thing from my mind right now.
He is my patient. That is it. That is all he can ever be. I am not the kind of girl who can be bought, even for five million dollars.
“What is on the menu?” Maxwell asks as he slides onto one of the barstools with surprising fluidity considering his injuries.
I debate whether a simple recipe that can be prepared quickly would be better than something with several complicated steps that take longer than his stamina will allow.
“Lasagna,” I suggest, opting for the latter.
“Sounds delicious,” he says, licking his lips.
My knees suddenly feel weak as I watch his tongue moisten his lips. I shake my head as I take a slow breath in, trying to get control of myself. To help snap out of it, I pull off the hoodie Ihad on to keep the chill at bay and put on the apron I have taken to wearing when I cook, avoiding eye contact with Maxwell as I do it.
“It was my Nan’s recipe,” I explain as I set about getting all the ingredients I will need to make the dish. “It is very complicated. I hope you are up for the task.”
Maxwell looks over his shoulder as though I am speaking to someone behind him. “Are you talking to me? I am up for anything.”
I cock my head to the side, picking up on his double meaning, but refusing to feed into his behavior. He is allowed to want me, I suppose. That doesn’t mean he is going to get me, now does it?
I roll my eyes and get going on the meal, starting with browning the meat for the sauce. Once that is cooking, I start measuring out the flour for the pasta I am going to make.
“Homemadepasta?”
“You don’t miss a thing, do you?” I look up and give him an icy smile before getting back to work.
“What can I do to help?” he asks rather than continuing the childish argument I just started.
“Grab the eggs,” I say, nodding at the refrigerator which the chef from the city freshly stocked just this morning.
We have settled into somewhat of a routine lately. The vastly overpaid chef that is supposed to be cooking all of Maxwell’smeals has started just bringing fresh ingredients every day for me to cook with. Preparing meals isn’t exactly part of my job description, but I am finding I quite like it. When I worked at the rehab center, I was responsible for several patients at a time, but even then I struggled with the downtime. Now, with just one patient whose care needs are decreasing by the day, I am finding myself with far too much time on my hands. Cooking helps with that.
The chef will still bring prepared meals if I ask, but after talking to him, we both decided this way is better. If I want a particular meal, I can ask for him to bring the ingredients the next time he comes, otherwise he provides me with seasonal veggies and a selection of meats, and I am given free rein to make what I see fit.
“This is going to take hours,” Maxwell says with a sigh after watching me multitask for a few minutes.
“You are welcome to take a nap,” I say, arching an eyebrow at him as I sift some more flour when the dough on the counter is a little too moist. “You are the one who offered to help.”
“I didn’t think you were going to choose something that takes forever to make. At this rate, we are going to be here all night.”
