Protege(32)



She wasn’t a seasoned chef by any means. Everything she knew how to cook came from someone else’s recipe. However, she had a mind for cuisine and once she made something she never forgot how.

In the fridge she found some fresh cut meats. Two pork chops beckoned to be marinated, but she’d check with him first. There was something incredibly satisfying about pleasing a man with a well-cooked meal.

Love and care went into every ingredient and soon she was whisking up a fluffy batch of buttermilk pancakes. The six-burner stove was so luxurious and modern, a gem hidden in the antiquated kitchen along with the dishwasher disguised with the wood of the cabinets much like the enormous double-door refrigerator. She’d never had the joy of cooking in such a state-of-the-art kitchen.

“Smells incredible.”

Though he startled her, she recovered quickly and smiled. “Your kitchen is incredible.”

“I’m glad you like it. It’s yours for the next twenty-nine days, so if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Perhaps she was too impressed by the room, but knowing this would become her domain over the next month gave her domestic self a thrill. “Thank you, Sir.”

He paused, his eyes finding hers in a glance that stopped the world from spinning for a split second. Intensity built, as something pulled tight between them, like a thread that would eventually snap or bring them closer. Sucking in a breath, she escaped the moment and said, “Breakfast will be ready in a minute. If you have a seat I’ll bring you your coffee.”

He blinked, the moment broken, and nodded. Occupying the chair at the end of the farm table, he unfolded a paper as she placed his coffee on a saucer to his right. Everything was so picture perfect, so calming. The orchestrated rhythm was timeless, something she craved and never came close to finding. Even if it was all make-believe, the effect was fulfilling.

He sipped his coffee. “This is perfect. Thank you, Collette.”

Her breath caught at his praise and she smiled softly. “You’re welcome, Sir.”

Though the formality bothered her last night, today she found their courteous dialogue refreshing and polite. She carried a plate of pancakes to the table and returned a moment later with a sliced grapefruit and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“This looks delicious. Have a seat.”

“I just wanted to rinse the batter out of—”

He caught her hand. “Sit. That can wait.”

His command was gentle, yet left no room for argument. She sat and he placed two pancakes on each plate. “Syrup?”

She hadn’t expected him to serve. “Yes, please.”

He poured a swirl of amber maple syrup on her cakes, and she waited for him to take the first bite. When he did, he nodded his approval and she joined him.

There wasn’t much to talk about, being that they were still getting to know each other. However, that left lots to discuss. She just wasn’t sure how much she was allowed to say or ask.

His brow arched as he sipped his coffee, amusement dancing in his green eyes. “You’re quiet this morning. Is everything okay?”

She wiped her mouth on the napkin and folded her hands on her lap. “I wasn’t sure what the rules were.”

His gaze held hers. “There are no rules against talking over a meal.”

“I just assumed, after last night . . .”

“Last night was different. When we’re involved in a sexual moment and I give you explicit instructions, I expect you to follow my direction without question, because we’re carrying out acts within the guidelines of our agreement. I’ve given you no direction other than to make breakfast. You can speak freely, Collette. I want you to be comfortable. Just be yourself.”

Some of the tension left her shoulders. “I’m in love with your kitchen,” she said, trying to break the ice. “Did you have it designed or was some of it original to the house when you bought it?”

“Well, the house was renovated in the late eighteen hundreds but had fallen into ill repair. That’s part of the reason I could afford the place. It took years to finish. This was the original servants’ kitchen, but the layout’s shifted over the years. The only thing original is the brick oven and the glass in the cabinets. See how it’s marbleized? Age does that. We preserved as many pieces as we could.”

“You did a magnificent job. I can barely decorate a bedroom.”

“Having the means definitely allows a person more access to creativity. I can’t say I would have accepted such an undertaking if I did something else for a living.”

“How old were you when you opened Fernweh?”

His head tipped as he considered. “We just celebrated our ten year anniversary, so twenty-four.” He finished his coffee and placed his napkin on his plate. “Breakfast was delicious, Collette.”

Again, her body heated at his praise. “Thank you, Sir.”

She stood to collect their plates and he caught her wrist. Her breath slowed as she stared at the table, waiting for him to say something. His hold was loose, but enough to keep her still—enough to warn her they were moving out of the casual moment and into something different. “You’re very pretty, peach. Very feminine.”

Her breasts pressed against the bodice of the apron. “Thank you, Sir.”

His voice dropped low, in a way that demanded more of her attention. “Place your palms on the table.”

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