Page 16 of Surrender to Me
That’s something I’ll never believe in.
“Say yes, Allie.”
The man knows how to lead me into temptation. “How about I buy dinner later? Or we order in some groceries, and I can cook for?—”
“Cook?” He interrupts before I’ve even finished speaking. “That’s a deal.”
We both grin.
He taps the screen of his device with quick efficiency as he scrolls through an app.
Moments later, he glances up. “Do you want a coffee? Or whatever that weird thing was that you were drinking earlier.”
Since he drinks his caffeine straight up, my order probably does sound ridiculous. “If they have it. Chai. With oat milk.”
“How is that even a thing?” Though he winces a little, he returns to his phone, swipes, then presses. “Iced or hot?”
Generally at this time of day, I’d switch to an iced drink. But I’m strangely chilled. “Hot. Please.”
A few moments later, he looks at me again. “Anything else?”
“It’s probably enough food for a few days.”
“Yeah. They’re known for their portions.”
That handled, he slides his phone onto the quartz island. “What’s your specialty? Cooking wise?”
Unable to help myself, I grin. “We just ordered breakfast, and you’re worrying about dinner?”
“A man needs sustenance if he’s going to be his best.” Purposefully he sweeps his gaze over me, and I go molten from the inside out.
To cover my reaction, I quickly look away.
Then, pushing back my hair to cover my reaction, I move toward the kitchen. “Is it okay if I have a look around? See what we have to work with?”
He steps aside. “Help yourself.”
I brush by him, hyperaware of his clean scent and the overwhelming size of his lean body. Just how many hours a day does he work out?
My insides are a mess by the time I’m in the relative safety of his kitchen.
I’ve never poked around in a man’s cupboards before—unless I was checking for hiding places. I’m always surprised by how clever people think they are, tucking valuables inside old tins or sliding cash inside cereal boxes with the bags barely split open. Once, I found diamonds inside a canister of powdered creamer. Vacuum-sealed in plastic and everything.
There’s nothing like that here.
But it turns out I learn a lot by opening doors and looking at his mostly empty box of tea, the oversize plastic jug of strong, dark-roast coffee that’s more than half-gone. There are a few boxes of pasta along with two jars of marinara. And half a dozen selections of soup.
There are no spices. No flour. No oils. Nothing that says he ever really cooks here.
It’s utilitarian. Precise. Everything chosen for function, not comfort. This isn’t a home. It’s a base of operations. Not that I hadn’t guessed that just from walking in.
The fridge is equally sparse. Butter. Ketchup. Mayonnaise that could have been there a decade ago.
Thinking, I drum my fingers on my thigh. The weather is cool, and he strikes me as a hearty eater. “How about I order some groceries for delivery? I’m thinking we could have stew? That way you’ll have leftovers. Maybe a crusty bread.”
“Sold.”
“That was fast.” I glance at him. He’s grinning like I’ve offered him the best gift ever.
