Page 33 of Mountain Impact

“What did you bring?” She went up on tiptoes, trying to see into the bags in his arms. He raised his arms and kept the bags out of her reach, laughing.

“You’ll see, sweetheart, you’ll see.” The endearment rolled off his tongue before he could think better of it. Sweetheart. He’d never used an endearment with another woman before. But it fit Isolde.

She paused for a second by the door. She’d noticed as well. He waited for her to react, but she didn’t say anything. He debated whether to ask her about it later. For now, he wanted to feed her.

Upstairs in her apartment, Drake took off his shoes at the entrance and carried the bags to her small kitchen, which took up one corner of the living room.

Thank goodness I brought everything I need for tonight’s meal.

“It doesn’t look like you cook much,” he said, opening and closing a couple cabinets. “What do you normally eat?”

It was hard to think of a normal which didn’t include him, but Isolde was a grown woman―she’d been feeding herself for years.

She shrugged. “Wine and cheese, sometimes. Or else, I order something in.”

She’d taken off her suit jacket and the offending heels and was now standing by the small kitchen island which doubled as an informal breakfast table. With her hand, she rubbed each of her small feet, in turn, groaning.

Drake felt like groaning himself.

If she keeps that up, I’ll forget all about dinner.

He shook himself. No. She’d been working all day, and he wanted to make her a nice meal. He wanted to get to know her better. And a part of him also didn’t want her to think he came only for―

“So, what are we eating? How can I help?”

He took a long time to answer, as if trying to decide what exactly he could task her with. Finally, she laughed out loud. He loved the sound of her laugh.

“I said I didn’t cook much, Drake, not that I won’t know what to do with myself in a kitchen. I can follow instructions.”

He felt himself grow harder. He could give her instructions to follow.

The meal, Drake. She means the meal.

He shrugged lightly and fought the urge to rearrange himself. He was a grown man, not a horny teenager.

“We’re making a lettuce, avocado, apple and pine nut salad. How about you start by washing some lettuce, and we go from there?”

She laughed again, a musical sound. “I get the feeling you don’t really trust me.” But she moved closer to him and picked up the lettuce, taking it to the sink. In her bare feet, she barely came to his collarbone.

I trust you, Isolde.

More than you can imagine.

“I trust you,” he said. He wasn’t talking about the salad anymore, but he tried to keep his tone of voice light―no point in making her feel uncomfortable.

Soon they were working together side by side.

This is better than takeout.

When the food was ready, they set a couple placemats on the kitchen island. He sliced the fresh, country bread. As he served the salad, Isolde sipped her red wine delicately. Her small tongue came out to lick her lips, and he thought he might explode.

“Stop doing that, please,” he begged.

Her eyes widened―she really did not know what he was speaking about. He pointed to the wine glass, then his thumb went to her lips, rubbing gently against the top, then the bottom lip.

She groaned. “You’re the one who needs to stop that.”

“What if I don’t want to stop?” he whispered.