Page 23 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
Well, it doesn’t matter.
I try to push away Dream Man Luke and focus on Real Man Luke.
His smile turns smug, and he hands me the plate.
“You’re not supposed to spend your time feeding me.”
“You need to eat, Mr. Host. You make the whole show happen.”
I peer at the assortment of food he selected.
“Everything is delicious,” Luke says.
I eye the camembert-and-cranberry bites. “I chose them myself.”
Luke beams.
“We, um, should get out there...” I say.
Luke picks up the camembert bite. “Open up.”
He leans toward me, and my nostrils flare, as if desperate to inhale his citrusy and cotton scent. Well, my nostrils have good taste, just like the rest of me.
He pauses. “Unless there’s a reason you don’t want to eat. I don’t want to make you feel forced.”
I smile. “Just give it to me.”
I open my mouth, and he drops the camembert bite into my mouth.
Luke Hawthorne is feeding me.
My eyes roll back, my lashes flutter, camembert fills my mouth, detonating my taste buds.
“Good, huh?”
I nod more times than necessary, savoring the creamy camembert.
He smirks, then picks up another delicacy.
“You don’t actually need to feed me,” I protest, but my mouth is open, and he drops another canapé onto my tongue.
It’s good.
Of course, it’s good.
The tentativeness he had earlier disappears, vanishing with my nerves. I should find it annoying, but instead I laugh through my chewing.
I take the plate from him, because being fed by a hot NHL star might feature in my dreams for the rest of my life, and I’m so not prepared for that to happen. I eat the food quickly, then look up. “Thank you.”
He smiles, then glances at the crowns. “I’m ready.”
My stomach sinks, and I remember who he is here for. It’s not me.
In a moment he’ll walk out and choose which women to keep, which to send home.
Because I am not here to be fed canapés in dark closets by Luke Hawthorne.
LUKE
