Page 206 of Trouble from Abroad
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I splash cold water on my face multiple times, get a hold of my out of bounds imagination, and wait a good fifteen minutes for the flush of an impending orgasm to fade from my cheeks. Only then meet him in the kitchen.
He’s wiping his hands on a linen towel, short sleeves unnecessarily pushed up, arms flexing with every move. His grin is stupid-hot, no frown in sight. Damn straight he’ll be working out every day.
Go, endorphins. Show the man what you can do.
He gestures toward the counter, where a lunch setup waits with a lot more flair than a weekday lunch between a nanny and her boss should have. Chargers, fine china, crystal glasses, and a small bouquet of handpickedflowers I recognize from his back garden, trimmed to uneven perfection. Wow. He’s done a lot in a short amount of time.
I lean in to inhale their fresh green scent. It’s clean and alive. Just like he makes me feel.Well, minus the clean.
Oh. This is thoughtful.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice lower than it should be.
I can handle his grumpiness all day, but the cute? Cute boss is a curveball I didn’t see coming, and my only defense is candor.
Preston doesn’t just smile back. He lights up. Unfiltered—all teeth and crinkled eyes. It knocks the air from my lungs. Is he wooing me? Because I’m so fucking wooed right now.
“You’re welcome,” he says, voice lower too, maybe afraid of breaking the spell.
Each stolen glance skims over me. A brush of warmth across my skin. His gaze lingers on my mouth. Mine drifts to the vein on his forearm that flexes when he lifts a pan or rips the bag of the next ingredient.
I don’t have that much experience with sex. I doubt he has much in flirtation.
But this soft-simmer thing? It feels really nice.
“Just enjoy your meal and fight those instincts to help out,” he says, nudging a glass filled with lemonade toward me. “Let someone take care of you for once.”
Oh. He has no idea how much that hit home.
He says it so easily, so gently—as if care is a given, not something I have to earn. It hits somewhere deep, dark, unlit. It sinks into a part of me I keep locked away.
My throat’s too tight with memories to argue. So I stay seated.
Let it sink.
Let it sting in the way only something kind and unfamiliar can.
When I find my voice again, I ask, “What are you making? It smells… divine.”
“It’s leftovers, but I made it myself. Beef bourguignon. Found some in the freezer.”
He lifts the lid, gives it another stir, and closes it again.
“The rice is fresh, though,” he adds, peeking into another pot.
“Well, by the smell of it, it’s going to be amazing.” I tug the napkin from under my cutlery, smoothing it over my lap, grounding myself to something.
He shoots me a smile, pride brightening it.
Preston plants his hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders going taut. He leans closer, tilting his head.
“Miss Thorne, you haven’t even tasted it yet,” he says, smooth as caramel. “You can’t decide whether something will be good for you before you give it a try.”
My pulse trips over itself. Heat skates down my spine and settles low in my belly, sudden and a bit humiliating. There is absolutely no reason a man offering me lunch should sound like he’s talking about ruining me on a kitchen counter, and yet here we are.
It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about food anymore. Or maybe that’s just my horny little imagination doing laps again. Either way, the way his voice dropped when he said it felt like foreplay in verbal disguise.
