And when he kneaded dough? Sweet baby Jesus. He did this little grunt every time he thrust the heels of his hands over the springy mass. A deep rumbling grunt as his whole taut body rocked toward the countertop. And then there was the pullback, when he’d breathe in, those wide shoulders of his rolling in a steady rhythm.
Grunt. Thrust. Breathe. Pull.
It was a wonder I didn’t orgasm on the spot watching him.
“I can feel your eyes on me,” Lucian deadpanned, not breaking rhythm.
I bet you can.
“It’s mesmerizing.”
He grunted again, this time one that I knew meant “Whatever floats your boat, Em.”
I smiled. “I could film this and have an instant hit on my hands.”
He glanced my way, all cool wintergreen annoyance—belied by the slight smile trying to pull at his lips. “Ex–hockey players baking?” He turned his attention back to the dough. “I guess there’s a certain spectacle about it.”
“You seriously underestimate your appeal here, Brick.”
With a scoffing grunt, he neatly shaped the now-smooth dough into a ball and set it in a large bowl before covering it with a damp cloth. With that, he washed his hands and headed for the fridge.
“What’s next?” I asked, leaning forward in anticipation.
“Piecrust for the tomato tarts we’re having for dinner.” His lips quirked. “You’re welcome to help at any time.”
“We both know it’s better for everyone if I don’t.”
Lucian chuffed a half laugh. “No comment.”
He kept trying to teach me, but so far, I’d been a complete disaster in the kitchen. If there was a cooking gene, I’d clearly missed out on it. As Lucian set a large hunk of butter on the counter and grabbed the flour, I smiled and read a few emails that popped up on my iPad.
Other than what I was calling the pool incident, we hadn’t acknowledged the attraction between us. But it was there, growing and heating. And yet so was our friendship. I liked him, damn it. More than was safe. Attraction could ebb and flow, but truly liking another person meant it would hurt more to lose them.
Considering I didn’t have Lucian in any long-term capacity, it worried me. Even so, I couldn’t deny the contentment I felt in sharing his precious workspace. He outright chased everyone else out of his kitchen when he was in it. Only Amalie, and sometimes Tina, got away with a quick visit, but even they would be gently eased out the door after a minute or two.
“What’s that grin all about?” came his darkly amused rumble.
The other thing about being in the kitchen with Lucian? He noticed everything I did, even when I thought all his concentration was on his food.
“Never you mind.”
He hummed.
I clicked on my email and found one from my agent. My smile grew wobbly.
“Now you have to tell me about that one,” Lucian said dryly.
I glanced up and found him looking at me with one dark eyebrow quirked in imperious impatience. I snorted. “Why is it that I’m called Snoopy, when you’re nosy as hell?”
“I’m only nosy about you. You’re snoopy with everyone.”
My stomach fluttered at the confession that he only wanted to know more about me. I didn’t show it, though, and rolled my eyes before reading a bit more of the email. “It’s from my agent. A couple of casting directors have sent over scripts that might be promising.”
“You’re surprised?”
“I haven’t been offered many roles since Dark Castle. So this is . . . unexpected. Good.”
“Good.” His brief smile was wide and beautiful, and it took my breath to see it. Then, as if it hit him that he was grinning with sunny feeling, he grunted and went back to cutting the butter for his crust. “What made you want to be an actress?”
I could have given him my canned, on-standby answer, but there should be honesty between us. “I wanted to be famous.”
Lucian paused, his head jerking up.
I lowered my eyes, taking in my slim hands and wrists, which suddenly felt too fragile. “I was fourteen, and my dad was . . . in a mood. The Oscars were on, so my mom and I holed up in the den to watch. And there they were, all these women, wealthy, beautiful, and smiling.”
I glanced up and caught Lucian’s troubled gaze. My smile was one I’d used to reassure men for far too long, but it quickly slipped away under his calm quiet. Because with him, I didn’t have to appease or pretend. I swallowed hard. “To me, that was power. And I thought if I could have that power, that level of wealth and fame, I’d be safe. I’d be free.”
The preheating oven ticked in the resounding silence. Lucian’s expression pinched, and I knew he wanted to comfort me. But I couldn’t handle it in that moment.
“It wasn’t until I actually tried acting that I realized how much I loved it. Acting is challenging, fun, a safe way to express my emotions. I’d always spun tales in my head. This way, I got to tell stories in another way.”
Slowly, he nodded, a lock of inky hair falling over his brow. “You do it well, Emma.”
Emma. Only he could make my name feel like a velvet glove sliding over my skin.
“Thank you.” Success was a fickle thing; it could disappear at any moment. But under his regard, I wanted him to see me at my best. Which meant I had to get my head out of my ass, stop worrying so much, and get back into the game.
Strangely energized, I licked my lips and set my attention back on his vast marble-topped island. “You said you bake because it relaxes you, but is that the only reason?”
His head tilted, the corners of his lush lips curling. “We getting personal now?”
“I’d say so, given what I just told you.”
The teasing look melted into seriousness. “You honor me with your secrets—you know that, right?”
Maybe it was getting a little too intense, because I had the sudden urge to cry or fling myself into his arms. “You going to do the same?”
He huffed, but it was self-deprecating. “It’s the challenge. It takes precision, focus, and planning. And though baking is fairly rigid in terms of technique, creativity plays a big part in the ultimate goal.” Lucian shrugged. “It may not seem much like hockey, but it involves both the mind and the body working as one and total dedication to the outcome.”
“Do you ever think about doing it professionally?”
At that, he turned back to his work, a frown of concentration pulling at his brows. “No.”
“Hmm. And yet your great-grandfather trained you. Did he want that for you?”
At this he smiled, a thin ghost of a gesture that haunted his handsome face. “Actually, he didn’t. He wanted me to follow my dream of being a hockey player.” The haunted smile grew sharp edges. “He said a person would never find true peace and happiness until they followed their passion and love. I suppose he ought to know. He loved being a chef.”
The fact that Lucian referred to his great-grandfather in the past tense made it clear he was no longer with us. But I couldn’t help asking, “Did he ever see you play professionally?”
Lucian’s expression shut down. “Once. But he . . . well, I was never certain he really understood.”
“I don’t . . . what do you mean?”