That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(99)

I pull away and look up at him. “Lobster bisque? I thought the Lighthouse Restaurant was the only place in town allowed to make that.”

“Don’t tell anyone.” He winks. “Plus mine is better.” He moves into the kitchen, and I selfishly take in his tight backside—that perfect, denim-wrapped butt. I stare at it for a few seconds before my eyes scan upward to the narrow cut of his hips and the breadth of his shoulders, where his traps stand out, even beneath his shirt. There’s no doubt this man is one hot chef, and the way he hovers over his steaming pot as he takes a quick sip of his meal only makes him hotter.

“You really think yours is better? Those are big words, Knightly.”

“Well, I have to bring in the big guns if I’m going to win you back.”

“So your strategy is lobster bisque? You know the Lighthouse Restaurant’s is my favorite. Do you really think you can compete?”

“I do.” He reaches behind him and brings his shirt up and over his head before tossing it to the ground and facing me, topless and in all his beautiful, muscular glory.

I cross my arms over my chest and give him a slow once-over until I land on his cocky grin. “Nice try, but it’s not about who serves it; it’s about the taste.” I take a seat at the table, unfold my napkin, and set it on my lap. I pick up my spoon and look him square in the eyes. “Your muscles will not alter my opinion.”

“Damn.” He laughs. “Tough critic.”

“Don’t try to woo me with your body. Woo me with your talent.”

This time he’s the one who gives me a once-over. “Pretty sure I’ve wooed you with my talent many times.”

I give him an eye roll as he sets a bowl of soup in front of me. The smell alone is turning my stomach on, but the plating is also spectacular—not a drop of soup outside its bowl, a splash of green garnish to light up the dish, and a swirl of deep-orange sauce that blends beautifully with the creamy yellow of the bisque. This man may very well be the death of me, and this soup . . . my gravestone.

“Cheesy lobster bisque with some homemade ciabatta and honey butter.”

Seriously, the guy made his own butter.

“How on earth did you get this all done?”

“Magic, babe.” He winks. “I’m magic in the kitchen.”

He’s magic other places too, but to prevent any ego inflation, I keep my mouth shut and dip my spoon in the soup. I blow on it a few times and take my first taste.

Damn. It.

Don’t close your eyes. I know it’s good, but don’t close your eyes.

Crap. I can’t help it. My eyes close, and I savor the flavors as they bounce around my taste buds. Creamy, buttery, a hint of garlic, and all that cheese flavor. I really do think I’ve gone to heaven.

I don’t have to open my eyes to know what I’ll see across the table from me. Reid Knightly with a more-than-satisfied smile on his face, knowing very well that he just won the lobster bisque challenge. One spoonful, that’s all it took.

“I won’t gloat, don’t worry. You can open your eyes.”

Slowly, I part my eyelids to find Reid leaning back in his chair, looking as confident as I’ve ever seen him.

“You don’t have to say it—it’s written all over your face,” he adds, arm draped over the back of his chair, his sculpted chest on full display.

“You don’t have to be so arrogant about it.” I take another spoonful, because I need another spoonful. It’s so freaking good.

“Not arrogant, just pleased. And now that I won your taste buds over with my lobster bisque, I need to win back your heart. I can trust that you’re open to hearing me out?”

“This lobster bisque might have helped you a little. Proceed with your groveling.”

A low chuckle rumbles out of him before he sits back up in his chair and starts eating along with me. He butters two pieces of bread and hands me one right before taking a large bite. His jaw works up and down, chewing, until he swallows, and for some reason I’m both fascinated and shamelessly turned on by his mouth. Maybe because I know exactly what that mouth can do, and it’s been far too long since I’ve experienced it.

“Groveling, huh? Do I need to get on my knees?”

“Maybe later, if you’re lucky.”

His brows rise, and that smile grows even wider—just as there’s a knock on his door.

Groaning, he says, “Brig is coming over for some bisque. I told him I’d save some as a thank-you for his help. He’s going to be annoying about us having dinner together, so just ignore him.” Raising his voice, he calls out, “Come in, dickhead.”

The door opens, and my spoon is halfway to my mouth when Eric walks onto the houseboat. He frowns, confused; his eyes first land on a shirtless Reid, and then they slide over to me. Pure rage flashes through Eric’s gaze in a matter of seconds.

Oh crap.

Reid stands from his chair and puts his hands out. “Eric, let me—”

But before Reid can explain, Eric is charging him, cocking his arm back, and landing his fist right on his eye. Reid’s body careens backward into the table, spilling lobster bisque all over the floor and chairs.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” Eric yells.

“Eric!” I scream, scared and confused at the same time. “What are you doing?”