Page 49 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
My mouth falls open.
He groans.
And suddenly he’s kissing me again—hot and wet and not pulling back until my lungs scream for air.
“See?” he murmurs.
Then he snags the cookie, shoves it back into my hand, but before I can take a bite or verbalize that I’m really freaking confused, he’s scooping me up and settling me on the counter. “Eat,” he orders. “I’ll make us both something to eat and get you settled before I have to leave for the rink.”
It takes me a bit to recover, but eventually I do, and I find I’m intrigued by the confident and capable way he moves, picking up the ingredients and bringing them over to the stove, getting out a cutting board and knife and spices with practiced hands.
Though the ingredients are a confusing mix.
Peanut butter and chicken breasts? Strawberry jelly and red pepper slivers? And garlic. And red pepper flakes.
My tastebuds are already protesting.
“Eat your cookie,” he says and I lift my gaze from the cutting board and chicken that’s being efficiently sliced and seasoned to find him staring at me.
More of my temper frays. “You really like giving orders, don’t you?”
“I like to see a woman I care about eating.”
My nose wrinkles. “You don’t even know me.”
He sets down the knife, dumps some oil into the pan and turns on the burner with a click. “You know more about me than almost any other person on this planet.”
I freeze.
“Gray,” I whisper.
“Which means I’m going to feed you, going to set you up in my guest room—where you’re going to stay in until you’re settled and ready to go back home.” He fixes me with a stern look. “And not because you feel like you’re imposing so need to run out of here.”
“Gray,” I say, irritation blooming anew.
“Yes, that’s another order,” he replies without the least bit of remorse. “Argue with me about it later.” He turns back, dumps the chicken in the pan then moves to the sink.
I nibble at the inside of my cheek as I mentally count to ten.
When that settles my temper—somewhat—I consider my options…
And know that they’ll likely have me ending up right in his guest room.
By this time, he’s washed the cutting board and knife and is snagging the loaf of bread and peanut butter and jelly.
“What exactly are you going to cook for us?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of my temper.
“My pregame meal.” He starts slapping peanut butter and jelly onto two slices.
“Which is what exactly?” My eyes flick to the chicken on the stove. The pan is sizzling intensely and I start to hop down.
“Don’t move,” he—yup—orders, pointing the jelly-covered knife in my direction.
“The chicken?—”
“Will be fine for the next thirty seconds.” He tosses the knife in the sink, slaps another slice of bread onto each of the other two and turns back to me, shoving a sandwich into my free hand. His eyes flick to the one still holding my cookie. “Thought I told you to eat that.”
I glare at him. “You’re really trying to make me mad, aren’t you?”
