Page 21 of Beneath the Quiet Sky

“You are so fucking sexy,” he growled.

Every inch of me lit up with heat as he pressed another kiss to my lips, this one light and affectionate. “We’d better stop, though.”

“We don’t have to.”

He groaned. “Erin, if we don’t stop, this is going somewhere I don’t think either of us is ready for.”

He was right, of course. I wasn’t ready for sex, but I didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. I could spend the entire night just kissing him. To my dismay, he shifted away from me before bracing a hand against the mattress and slowly standing, careful of his knee.

“Let’s go,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Go where?”

“You said you’re malnourished because you don’t have anywhere to cook. So let’s go get you something nourishing to eat.”

A swirl of nerves filled my belly. “You mean downstairs?”

“Yeah, we can use the kitchen. It’ll be empty at this time of night,” he replied, but I remained hesitant. Tristan might’ve been comfortable wandering around the hotel because his father owned the place and he was permitted to be here. I, on the other hand, was not.

I shook my head. “It’s too risky.”

“If anyone sees us, they’ll just think you’re my girlfriend and that I’m trying to impress you.”

Well, he might be right about that. After all, if a member of staff caught us, they were hardly going to immediately think I was living here. They’d just see it as the boss’s son taking liberties.

In the end, I relented, placing my hand in his. Tristan led me back down the stairs, through several shortcuts, before we arrived in the hotel kitchen. It was dark and quiet, the service closed for the night. Tristan went to one of the fridges, pulling out a container then grabbing a loaf of crusty bread and a stick of butter.

“This is a favourite in the Balfe family,” he said, decanting what looked like soup into a pot and turning on the hob to heat it up.

“Tomato soup?” I asked.

“Chili soup. The chef here at the hotel makes it. It’s her secret recipe. Wait until you get a taste.”

My mouth was already watering just from hearing him speak about it. Tristan gave the pot a stir, then turned to me. I stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, arms folded as I fretted about someone coming in and catching us. He smiled in a hot, simmering sort of way that made me remember our kiss. He took a step towards me, then slid his hands around my waist. My breath caught when he lifted me. Butterflies filled my stomach as he set me down on a clean, stainless steel countertop then went about cutting up slices of bread and buttering them while the soup heated.

“My dad used to make this delicious roast chicken with a creamy onion sauce,” I said to fill the quiet. “I think he got the recipe from a French cookbook. We always had it on special occasions. That was our family’s favourite meal.”

Tristan smiled softly. “Sounds delicious.”

“Maybe if Sloane ever comes to her senses and breaks up with Graham, I can make it for her as a celebratory dinner.”

He set down the butter knife and turned to me, his hand coming to tuck a wayward curl behind my ear. Electricity zapped where his fingertips touched my sensitive skin. “I’m sure she will. It’ll happen sooner or later.”

I met his gaze, getting lost in their chestnut brown depths. “I hope you’re right.”

The pot of soup began to bubble, and Tristan stepped away to check on it. I tried to compose myself because, every time he got close, my hormones went haywire.

Satisfied that the soup was ready, Tristan turned off the hob and lifted the pot. Moments later, there was a steaming hot bowl of chili soup in front of me, and it smelled just as amazing as Tristan had described. I slurped back a spoonful, and after spending the last few weeks on instant noodles, dry cereal and crackers, the explosion of taste was almost a religious experience. I closed my eyes, savouring all the flavours; tomato, garlic, chili, cumin and whatever other spices had been combined to create the recipe. I understood now why it was a favourite meal for Tristan’s family.

“Try it with the bread,” he suggested, and I glanced up, realising he’d been watching me the entire time. Self-consciousness nipped at me, but I pushed it down and picked up the bread, dipping it in.

“Oh my God.” The soup combined with the bread was even better.

Tristan chuckled then finally started on his own bowl. We ate in quiet, though I was still a little on edge about being caught by hotel staff. Tristan reassured me again that no one came into the kitchen after it was shut up for the night. When we were done, we made short work of tidying up. We left the place so spotless it was like we’d never even been there.

When we returned to the attic, I was exhausted. I was full in a way I hadn’t been in weeks, and combined with the late hour, I was ready to pass out. I thought Tristan might bid me goodnight, but instead he climbed up next to me. My heart pounded when he dropped to my side and pulled me into his arms, wrapping me in his embrace while his body cradled mine. His warmth sank into me as his arm rested along my waist. There was a tiny sliver of space between our bodies, but he gave a gentle tug to pull me closer, eliminating the distance and bringing his firm, hard chest flush with my back. I felt his breath tickle my neck and suppressed a shiver, his lips brushing my skin as he whispered, “Go to sleep.”

He soothingly stroked my forearm, and my entire body lit up at the tender intimacy of his touch. It made me wired in a way that should’ve made it impossible to sleep, but somehow I managed to drift off.