Page 80 of Coldhearted King

“A variation of it.” I glance up at him. “Do you like grilled cheese?”

He shrugs. “Don’t most people?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure what billionaires eat at home. And you don’t exactly seem like the comfort-food type.”

“Is that what it is for you? Comfort food?”

“Yeah.” I smile to myself. “My mom used to make it for me whenever I had a bad day. When I got older, and Mom was working two jobs, I started making them for her when she got home too late for dinner. When I was a poor college student, I experimented. This is my favorite variation. Although”—I hold up the cheese and wine he’s given me—“I never had ingredients this expensive.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I suppose not. That bottle cost five hundred dollars.”

I freeze. “Oh no, I can’t use—”

“Use it.”

I bite my lip, then nod, and continue what I’m doing.

He watches quietly as I melt the cheddar and brie in a saucepan, then add in some of the wine.

Cole fetches two glasses, then takes the bottle and fills them. I accept the one he hands me and take a sip. The cool, tart flavor explodes on my tongue. “Mmm, that’s good.”

And now I know what a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine tastes like.

Cole hasn’t drunk any of his yet. He’s watching me with an inscrutable expression on his face. It makes me a little nervous, so as I combine the butter and mustard in a small bowl, I ask, “Did your mom ever make you grilled cheese when you were growing up?”

He doesn’t answer, and I look up at him. His jaw is tight, but he just shakes his head. “We had a chef. Sometimes if we harassed him enough, he’d make us one. He didn’t like doing it, though. It was beneath his culinary talents.”

Right. I guess caviar was more his thing.

“Well, we’re the chefs tonight,” I tell him. “So, here.” I pass him a plate with two slices of bread on it, along with the bowl of butter and mustard. “Spread the melted cheese on, then butter the top with this.”

He does, and I do the same with mine. When we’re finished, I find a skillet and fry the sandwiches until the bread is a crispy golden brown. When I slide Cole’s plate over the counter to him, he looks at it, then back up at me, something shifting in his gaze.

“Thank you,” he says in a low voice.

When was the last time someone other than a professional chef made him a meal? I smile. “You’re welcome.”

I’m still standing on the other side of the bench, but he uses his foot to push the stool next to him out and nods at it. “Come here.”

I carry my plate and wineglass around the bench and slide my butt onto the stool. The tension on his face relaxes, and he smiles at me. Once again, that expression has my breath catching in my lungs. He really is unbelievably gorgeous, even more so with that look on his face rather than the stern one he normally wears. Although, the stern expression he gets when standing at the head of a conference table, controlling a room full of people with a single look, isn’t too bad either.

I pick up my sandwich and take a bite. The mix of sharp cheddar and creamy brie goes beautifully with the mustard and the hint of wine. I watch him as he bites into his and chews, and I’m more nervous than I should be to hear what he thinks.

His eyes meet mine. “This is delicious,” he finally says, with a hint of what sounds like surprise in his voice.

I can’t help the grin that crosses my face, and I take a sip of my wine. “Now that you know how to do it, you can make one of these whenever you get the urge for a snack.”

“I’ll probably just call my favorite restaurant and tell them how to make it, then get them to deliver it.”

I stare at him with my mouth open. His expression is deadpan, and I don’t know if he’s serious or not until he cracks a smile and chuckles.

I laugh too. “Wow. There’s that sense of humor again.”

“It comes out on occasion.”

I take the last bite of my sandwich and then, with a hum of contentment, I lick the last bit of greasy goodness off my fingers.

I look up in time to see Cole’s eyes focused on my mouth. They’ve gone dark. He puts the rest of his sandwich on his plate, pushes it away from him, hooks his foot around the leg of my stool, and drags me closer, forcing a gasp out of me.

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