Pretend Love Romance by Penny Wylder
Clayton
I respect Rachel’s request and show up just as the kitchen is closing. I can hear the tell-tale sounds of cleaning coming from the kitchen, but I find her in the dining room—the only person present—next to a table full of food.
“Hey,” I say.
She startles before turning around and smiling. “Hey.” The way her face lights up on seeing me is a sight that I could get used to every day.
“What’s all this?”
She pulls out the chair and ushers me into it, the spread in front of me looks and smells amazing. “I don’t just work in the culinary arts,” Rachel says. “And though my rank was junior chef, I basically ran the kitchen. I did all the tasks of the head chef and had the respect of everyone else there. Not only am I a chef, I’m an excellent one. But you had no way of knowing that.”
I stare at her. That isn’t what I expected, but it doesn’t surprise me in the least. Rachel is incredibly competent, and I’m sure that she excels at whatever she puts her mind to. “Did you think that I wouldn’t believe you?”
She blushes, and nods toward the food. “You would have, but it’s an easy thing to prove.”
I start with a pasta dish right in front of me, and holy shit it’s good. The perfectly spiced and cooked chicken is amazing too. The potatoes. Rice that’s the perfect blend of savory and sweet. Everything that I try on the table could easily rank among the best food that I’d ever eaten, and I wish I had a stomach big enough to actually eat all of this.
“This is fucking amazing.”
“You think so?”
I pull her down so she’s straddling my lap. “Hell yes. So far beyond the other food, it’s insane.”
She’s blushing again, not meeting my eyes. “I didn’t make all this by myself. You’ve got a great staff in there. They know what they’re doing, but all they needed was some guidance.”
“So Martin?”
She smiles. “He wasn’t there, but I think he’d be willing to learn. It takes a lot to run a kitchen if you’re not ready for it.”
I reach for a roll from the basket on the table and dip it in the little ramekin of jam beside it. When I bite into it, I moan. The bread melts in my mouth and the apricot sweetness is sharp enough to ride the perfect line of ecstasy.
“You’ve tried these?”
She laughs. “I hadn’t, actually.”
I dip the roll again, and she takes a bite. A little bit of jam is still on my fingers when I finish the roll in one bite, and Rachel surprises the hell out of me when she grabs my wrist, sucking the jam from my fingers. “I’m a sucker for jam,” she says softly.
“Oh really?”
Dipping my finger in the pot of jam, I run it along her neck and lick it off. Rachel whimpers, hips moving against mine. There are distant sounds from the kitchen, but I don’t care. I open up the first few buttons of her shirt, letting the fabric part to expose her bra. I pull her tit up out of the bra cup and I smear the jam there too. I lick it off her nipple, savoring the flavor on her. Once clean, I tuck her breast back in and pull back. “Tell me how much you love it,” I say. “How much you love it when I lick this jam from your nipples.”
Her words stutter. “I-I love it. I love you.” Immediately she goes stone still. “Jam, I meant. I love jam.”
Rachel’s face is flaming red, and there’s a look of mortification on her face. She’s not meeting my eyes. That’s unacceptable. Especially after saying that. I weave my non-sticky hand into her hair and guide her gaze to mine. “Did you say you loved me?”
Misery is clear in her eyes, but she nods. “Yes.”
“And that upsets you?”
“No,” she gasps. “I just—”
“Don’t you dare regret it,” I tell her in a low voice. “Don’t you fucking be embarrassed about those words.”
She closes her eyes. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s too soon.”
I kiss her hard, still tasting the sweetness of jam on her tongue. “It wasn’t fucking soon enough, Rachel. I should have said it first. I don’t care if it hasn’t been long.” Pressing my lips to her ear in the way I know makes her shiver, I speak the truest thing that I’ve ever said in my life. “I am so fucking in love with you, Rachel Dover. I don’t ever want you not to be here with me, in my life and in my bed. I want you to be my wife, because you’re already my everything.”
There are tears in her eyes when I kiss her again. “Yes,” she breathes. “I want that. I’m your wife. I’m your chef.”
We both laugh, and it’s swallowed by our kisses. But somewhere in-between tangling tongues and battling lips she finds the words, “I love you too.”
