Hard No: Secret Baby Enemies to Lovers Romance by Hazel Parker (fun to read txt) 📗

She definitely seemed less stuffy without her chef’s jacket. Her curves did wonderful things for the T-shirt she had donned for the occasion, and it also left significantly more of her arms exposed. They were the same ivory, silky-looking flesh as her neck, face, and hands, but you could tell she was not soft beneath it. This was clearly a woman who was used to being busy, especially with her hands.

Her hair had been pulled back again, higher up on the back of her head this time, which left more of her long, graceful neck exposed. For a moment, I had a vision of lightly placing the palm of my hand against that spot. It had only been a moment, though, for she had noticed me right away this time, and I had been obliged to speak and break the spell.

Dinner had gone exceedingly well. The food had been delicious, absolutely perfect, but it was the conversation that had been the most enjoyable part of the evening for me. White wasn’t what you would call chatty but was refreshingly forthcoming with interesting answers to all of my questions. I compared it with my awkward, silence-punctuated conversation with Jamie, and found it as different as night and day.

About halfway through the meal, I had begun to consider ways in which I could draw the evening out a bit further.

“Shall I begin tidying up the kitchen, sir?” Curtis asks as White and I stand to visit the wine cellar.

“I don’t think so,” I tell him. “I have a feeling that Steph here has her own system for packing things away, and I wouldn’t want to step around that.”

White’s eyebrows go up a bit at this, in thanks? Thanks, and perhaps something else?

Curtis’s eyebrows are up as well, though he says nothing about it, only gives me an, “Of course,” and then is gone from the room.

I look around at White. “Shall we?” I invite.

“Please,” she answers.

I lead the way through the house to the destination’s doorway. White looks around curiously as we go but asks no questions. Her T-shirt and jeans make her stand out a mile from the house’s furnishings, but in the best possible way.

“This is it,” I say, “the wine cellar of a man who’s hardly ever home enough to drink wine. Be careful; the stairs are a little steep.”

She follows me down. Even though I don’t make much use of it, it is always pleasant seeing the orderliness of the room. With its clean lines, frameless glass, and stainless steel, everything looks sleek and modern.

“It’s beautiful,” White says. “Impressive collection you have here.”

“I don’t know what half of the bottles on the shelves are,” I confess. “I bought them based on recommendations and they’ve been down here ever since.”

“It almost seems a shame,” she says. “To have prizes like these and never enjoy them.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply. “Special occasions sometimes roll around. After all, I got to enjoy one tonight.”

White blushes a little at this; the second time tonight I’ve seen her do so. It puts the most irresistible flush across her creamy cheeks. Again, I want to press my hands to them, to feel the heat of her flesh.

“This is a Lafite Rothschild!” she exclaims, touching the bottle in question with one finger and staring at me with wide eyes.

“You know your wines,” I say.

“I know my meal components,” she clarifies. “I served this once by special request. It costs thousands of dollars!”

“Yes, it does.”

“And it’s just sitting down here!”

“You’re right,” I say, plucking the bottle from the rack. She stares at me as though I had just picked the last of some rare flower from its vine.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’ve never had a Rothschild before. Care to join me for a glass?”

She gawps. “You can’t be serious!”

“Well,” I answer, “it’s like you say—it’d be a shame to never enjoy this.” I sweep my free arm towards the stairs. “Shall we?”

She appears out of protests and precedes me up the stairs. As she passes by, I catch the barest whiff of her. She isn’t perfumed but smells wonderful all the same, like jasmine. I trail behind her, taking the lead when we gain the top of the stairs and head for the living room.

Curtis expertly opens the bottle and pours two glasses for us as we sit on the sofa.

“Is there anything else I can help with?” he asks.

“No,” I say, “I think that’s it for the night, thank you.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies, exiting the room.

The wine ends up being worth every cent of its sky-high price tag. I may not know wines per se, but I know a smooth drink when I’m having one, and I’m having one right now.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” White says. “I should be cleaning up your kitchen so that you can go about your evening.”

“I am going about my evening,” I say.

“I’m not keeping you from anything?”

“No. Am I keeping you?”

“If this is being kept, I don’t mind,” she says, then claps a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” she goes on, blushing once again.

I set down my wineglass on the coffee table. She does the same, looking at me perhaps a bit apprehensively.

“Steph,” I say.

“Trent,” she manages, after making a visible effort to get the syllable out.

“I feel like I should apologize for being so short with you the last time we were together.”

“I had just finished torching your kitchen,” she says with a rueful smile. “I think you were entitled.”

I’m suddenly aware that we are sitting only about a foot apart from each other. I can smell her again, that jasmine scent, and it’s making it slightly hard for me to concentrate.

“No,” I