Terms and Conditions (Dreamland Billionaires, #2)(78)

I try to block out the thoughts by blasting music through my earbuds. It seems to work temporarily, and I dance my way into the kitchen while singing along at the top of my lungs.

What I find has me halting my steps. One of my earbuds pops out, the blaring music barely audible over the sound of Declan chopping vegetables.

Excitement is fast replaced by skittishness as Declan glances up at me with eyes full of heat. What did I do to earn that kind of look?

“You’re here,” I reply after what feels like a whole minute of us staring at each other.

“I am.” He turns back to the cutting board and resumes chopping vegetables.

“You’re taking the day off too?”

Chop. Chop. Chop. “Not exactly.”

“Oh.” A heavy sigh escapes me.

“I planned a fake date for us.”

I blink. “I’m sorry. Did you just say you planned a fake date?”

His lips twitch. “I did.”

“Wow. That’s…unexpected.”

“We need to be out the door in the next hour.”

I cock my air gun and pretend to take aim. “Who’s the target?”

His lips press together. “I’ll tell you after.”

“Why not before?”

“I want you to act natural.”

All right… “And you telling me who we’re trying to impress could compromise that?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. They must be pretty important if they inspired you to plan something.”

His hand grasping the knife tightens. “I’m capable of planning a date.”

“Sure, you’re capable, but that doesn’t mean you actually want to.”

“Who says I don’t?” His question is far too loaded for me to handle without coffee.

So, instead of pushing Declan for more info, I help him with breakfast.

With the way he keeps touching me while moving around the kitchen, one would think we live in an apartment the size of a shoebox instead of a mansion. I try to ignore the way a thousand sparks shoot off my skin whenever his body brushes against mine. Every time I sharply inhale, his lips seem to curve at the edges. I swear he does it all on purpose.

I can barely concentrate on cooking, which results in a half-burnt omelet.

Sure, it might not look like the most appetizing meal, but it should get the job done. Calories are calories, am I right?

“Do you mind?” I snap when his chest brushes against my back.

“Your technique could use some work.” He assesses my breakfast with a scowl.

“Fine, Mr. Food Network. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

“Did it hurt to swallow your pride?”

“Ehh. I’ve swallowed worse.”

His nostrils flare.

Iris: 1. Declan: 0.

I smile as I take a step backward and hold out the spatula, expecting him to take it. The breath is knocked out of my lungs as he crowds me against the stove, clutching onto my hand holding the spatula.

“I prefer a more hands-on learning approach.” His hips press against my ass.

“Says the same man who used to tell me to figure it out or find a new job whenever I needed help.”

He replies by nipping at the skin of my neck.

My next sentence comes out ragged. “What are you doing?”

“Helping my wife.”

My throat bobs. “You’re growing a bit too comfortable with that nickname for my liking.”

“I use it to remind you of your place.”

“And what’s that?”

“Mine.”

My cheeks burn, along with the area below my waist. He ignores my sudden shyness as he pours the mixture with his free hand, trapping me in place between both of his arms.

“Your first mistake was pouring too much in the pan at once.” His hot breath hits my neck, eliciting goosebumps across my body.

The eggs sizzle, matching the way my insides feel as his chest brushes against my back. I never thought cooking could be considered an erotic experience—at least not until Declan. The man makes cooking eggs seem like a kind of foreplay.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “What’s next?”

He carries my hand gripping onto the spatula toward the hot stove. “You let the eggs cook.”

It’s a simple task, yet he holds my hand hostage as we gently push the eggs over and over until the top surface of the eggs has thickened. Each minute feels like an eternity with the way he holds onto me. He seems to be drawn toward the curve of my neck, and he kisses me twice before dictating the next set of directions.

“Now you fill one side with your toppings.”

“Not both?”

His deep chuckle rattles my bones. “Greedy as always.”

“More like famished.”

“That makes two of us,” he replies huskily as he presses his hips into my ass.

That’s definitely not a phone in his pocket this time. I can tell that much.

“I think we’re talking about two different hungers here.” Somehow the words make it past my tight throat.

His thick length presses against the seam of my ass, telling me exactly how he feels about cooking. He pulls away all too quickly, taking his warmth with him as he adds some space between us. I don’t understand his reaction.