“Me, what?”
“Having you here, holding me. Your kind gestures, your surprises, your pursuit. It’s all too much for me, Reid. I want to hate you, but . . .”
“But what?” he asks, leaning closer, anticipation brimming in his eyes.
“But I can’t seem”—I pause and steady my shaking hands—“I can’t seem to stop my heart from wanting you.”
An irresistible grin passes over his lips. “You want me.” The words are filled with his usual cocky attitude. My tears quickly dry up as I palm his face and push him away from me.
“Forget I even said anything.”
“No way in hell.” He stands and pulls me up with him as his arms loop around my waist. Seeming not to care about whoever sees us, he presses his forehead against mine. “Come over tonight. Let me make you dinner. We won’t have time to fish and have the perfect date, but we can at least share the night before opening.”
“I don’t know,” I answer, my protest sounding pathetic even to me.
“Please, Eve. Let me apologize to you properly; let me make this up to you. When I said I wanted to make things right, I meant it.”
I said I’d listen with an open heart when he came to me, but it’s a little harder than I thought to put aside how much it hurt when he broke up with me. The look in his eyes, that desperate plea to try one more time—this is why I’m bending, why I can’t seem to turn this man away. No matter how cautious my brain is, my heart wins every single time.
“Tonight?” I ask. “I have plans.” I smile.
“What are you doing? Washing your hair?”
“Close, shaving my legs.”
He chuckles. “Come over, please. I promise it will be worth taking time away from shaving your legs.”
“I don’t know . . . I really treasure that time.”
He pulls me into a hug and presses his lips to the side of my head. The rippling muscles beneath his thin shirt press against me and quicken my pulse. “It will be worth it. We’re worth it.”
And with that final dagger to the heart, I nod and agree to meet him for dinner.
Who was I kidding? My need for this man was going to win one way or another. I’m just surprised I was able to put up this much of a fight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EVE
The door flies open, and Reid heaves a sigh of relief. “Ten minutes late—way to make a guy sweat.”
Laughing, I step into his houseboat and take my shoes off right before he pulls me into his arms. “Sorry, Eric wanted to go over a few things before I took off.”
“I thought you weren’t going to show. I was about to drown my sorrows in some lobster bisque.”
I pull away and look up at him. “Lobster bisque? I thought the Lighthouse Restaurant was the only place in town allowed to make that.”
“Don’t tell anyone.” He winks. “Plus mine is better.” He moves into the kitchen, and I selfishly take in his tight backside—that perfect, denim-wrapped butt. I stare at it for a few seconds before my eyes scan upward to the narrow cut of his hips and the breadth of his shoulders, where his traps stand out, even beneath his shirt. There’s no doubt this man is one hot chef, and the way he hovers over his steaming pot as he takes a quick sip of his meal only makes him hotter.
“You really think yours is better? Those are big words, Knightly.”
“Well, I have to bring in the big guns if I’m going to win you back.”
“So your strategy is lobster bisque? You know the Lighthouse Restaurant’s is my favorite. Do you really think you can compete?”
“I do.” He reaches behind him and brings his shirt up and over his head before tossing it to the ground and facing me, topless and in all his beautiful, muscular glory.
I cross my arms over my chest and give him a slow once-over until I land on his cocky grin. “Nice try, but it’s not about who serves it; it’s about the taste.” I take a seat at the table, unfold my napkin, and set it on my lap. I pick up my spoon and look him square in the eyes. “Your muscles will not alter my opinion.”
“Damn.” He laughs. “Tough critic.”
“Don’t try to woo me with your body. Woo me with your talent.”
This time he’s the one who gives me a once-over. “Pretty sure I’ve wooed you with my talent many times.”
I give him an eye roll as he sets a bowl of soup in front of me. The smell alone is turning my stomach on, but the plating is also spectacular—not a drop of soup outside its bowl, a splash of green garnish to light up the dish, and a swirl of deep-orange sauce that blends beautifully with the creamy yellow of the bisque. This man may very well be the death of me, and this soup . . . my gravestone.
“Cheesy lobster bisque with some homemade ciabatta and honey butter.”
Seriously, the guy made his own butter.
“How on earth did you get this all done?”
“Magic, babe.” He winks. “I’m magic in the kitchen.”
He’s magic other places too, but to prevent any ego inflation, I keep my mouth shut and dip my spoon in the soup. I blow on it a few times and take my first taste.
Damn. It.
Don’t close your eyes. I know it’s good, but don’t close your eyes.
Crap. I can’t help it. My eyes close, and I savor the flavors as they bounce around my taste buds. Creamy, buttery, a hint of garlic, and all that cheese flavor. I really do think I’ve gone to heaven.
I don’t have to open my eyes to know what I’ll see across the table from me. Reid Knightly with a more-than-satisfied smile on his face, knowing very well that he just won the lobster bisque challenge. One spoonful, that’s all it took.
“I won’t gloat, don’t worry. You can open your eyes.”
Slowly, I part my eyelids to find Reid leaning back in his chair, looking as confident as I’ve ever seen him.
“You don’t have to say it—it’s written all over your face,” he adds, arm draped over the back of his chair, his sculpted chest on full display.
“You don’t have to be so arrogant about it.” I take another spoonful, because I need another spoonful. It’s so freaking good.
“Not arrogant, just pleased. And now that I won your taste buds over with my lobster bisque, I need to win back your heart. I can trust that you’re open to hearing me out?”
“This lobster bisque might have helped you a little. Proceed with your groveling.”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him before he sits back up in his chair and starts eating along with me. He butters two pieces of bread and hands me one right before taking a large bite. His jaw works up and down, chewing, until he swallows, and for some reason I’m both fascinated and shamelessly turned on by his mouth. Maybe because I know exactly what that mouth can do, and it’s been far too long since I’ve experienced it.
“Groveling, huh? Do I need to get on my knees?”
“Maybe later, if you’re lucky.”
His brows rise, and that smile grows even wider—just as there’s a knock on his door.
Groaning, he says, “Brig is coming over for some bisque. I told him I’d save some as a thank-you for his help. He’s going to be annoying about us having dinner together, so just ignore him.” Raising his voice, he calls out, “Come in, dickhead.”