Juniper Hill (The Edens #2)(17)

Knox strode past the Please Seat Yourself sign, following the main aisle through the room.

I hadn’t been in here with the lights on. When Eloise had brought me through on my first day of work for the tour, it had been dark and quiet. Even now with the pendants glowing and light streaming through the exterior wall’s windows, the room held a dim edge.

The style fit Knox. Modern and moody and masculine.

Exposed brick. Deep wall color. Rich wood tones. Cognac leather booths. It was exactly the style my father loved for his hotel restaurants.

All that was missing from a Ward Hotel eatery was the dress code. Dad required men wear a jacket and tie. He also required his housekeepers and desk clerks wear uniforms. I was happy that Knuckles and The Eloise were so laid-back, that my jeans and tees and tennis shoes were standard housekeeping attire.

People waved when they spotted Knox. He nodded and waved back but didn’t slow his pace. He breezed past them, and in his wake, faces turned my way.

I ducked my chin and kept my eyes on the floor, not wanting to be noticed.

Old Memphis—the naive, spoiled girl—would have strutted through a room like this. She would have reveled in the attention. She would have accentuated every step with the click of a stiletto heel that cost thousands of dollars. She would have had diamonds in her ears and gold on her wrists.

She would have sat at the best seat in the restaurant, ordered the most expensive meal and picked at her food, letting most of it be thrown in the trash.

How many housekeepers had I walked past in my lifetime?

I’d never acknowledged a single one. Or the maids who’d worked on my parents’ estate. If a housekeeper had walked by, Old Memphis would have turned up her nose.

Old Memphis was dead. I’d killed that version of myself.

I’d stabbed her to death with the shards of a broken heart.

Good riddance. Old Memphis, though not all bad, had been a brat. Soft and silly. She wouldn’t have survived the past year. She would have caved and given into her family’s demands. She wouldn’t have been the mother that Drake needed.

My son would not be spoiled. I would teach him how to work hard. How to fight for a life on his own terms. When he walked past a housekeeper in a hotel, he’d pause to say thank you.

Maybe I’d lost my shine, but I was a better person without it.

Knox pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, holding it for me to follow him inside.

The scent of bacon and onions and buttered bread filled my nose, making my hunger claw. The stainless steel table in the center of the room was crowded with mixing bowls. The smaller ones had sauces, the larger salads. Five cutting boards were placed in between. One had an array of sliced vegetables, lettuce and pickles and tomatoes, all ready for sandwich and burger toppings. Another had a beef brisket, sliced thin.

“Did you bring me here to torture me?” I asked.

Knox chuckled, not quite a laugh but more a rumble from deep in his chest. He went to the side of the table where Eloise and I had sat on my first day, taking out a stool. “Have a seat.”

“Hey, Memphis.” Skip glanced over his shoulder from where he stood at the flat top, caramelizing some onions.

“Hi.” I waved and sat down.

“Want some lunch?” he asked.

“I’ve got it.” Knox held up a hand and walked to a shelf teeming with pots and pans. He took down a pot and filled it with water. Then he set it over a flame with a dash of salt before disappearing to the walk-in, returning with four different blocks of cheese. He chopped and grated until the water boiled, then he dumped in a box of dried pasta.

Knox moved through the kitchen with command and grace. It was like watching a dance.

A movement at my side stole my attention. Skip slid a plate and napkin in front of me, then winked. Busted. I hadn’t so much been staring at Knox as caught under a spell.

I blushed. “Thanks.”

“Want a new fork?” He nodded to the one still in my fist.

“This one is fine.” I set it on the plate.

Skip returned to his tasks, tearing off a ticket that rolled from a small black printer against the wall. He read it, then attached it to a clip that hung beside a warming rack. The bulbs glowed orange against the silver metal shelf.

My gaze drifted to Knox as he plated salads on three white plates. His hands plucked exactly the right amount of lettuce from a mixing bowl. His forearms flexed as he sprinkled the greens with shredded carrots and croutons from a roasting pan.

Then he added sliced cherry tomatoes and drizzled on a purple vinaigrette.

Those blue eyes stayed focused, never once drifting my way. If he felt me staring, he didn’t glance up.

And once more, I became entranced with his every move.

His steps. His hands. His face. His hair was long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. My mother would have called it shaggy, though I’d argue it was sexy. I’d seen what was beneath that coat my first night in the loft. I knew what those curls looked like dripping wet.

A low pulse bloomed in my core. There was always a rush where Knox was concerned but this was a curl, like thread wrapping around a spool, winding tighter and tighter with every turn.

Knox was more tempting than any meal.

More dangerous than the knife in his grasp.

The swinging door flew open and a pretty woman with brown hair hurried inside. A black apron was tied around her waist. Her white long-sleeved button-down was perfectly