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I s against my skin

“Now the real question is,” he says with a di, “can you cook?”

I laugh, relieved at his ease “I think I can cook At least I reer But I don’t usually have ingredients that are exactly gourmet”

His dark brown eyesbefore I carab my stuff”

“Do you need any help?” I ask

He shakes his head “Grab one of Granny’s aprons, and turn the oven on to 350 degrees”

“Got it,” I say, siddy excitement as I turn the oven on, then reach for one of the aprons hanging on a hook by the kitchen door It is green, with sprigs of holly all over it, and I tie a bow in the back, then sh me

Gosh, Whitaker is handso and tall, muscular, and his eyes They make my knees all weak And his touch? It sent a jolt of desire through ain, to see if the feeling can be replicated Licking my lips, I have a sense it can

Whitaker comes back into the house with his hands full and he roceries and begin unpacking thene, whiskey… fancy cheeses and organicto make a Christmas dinner, and my mouth waters as I think about the ham and potatoes

“What do you think?” he asks, carrying in a tub of pots and pans, even his own knives

“I think you know exactly what you’re doing in the kitchen”

He laughs “I love to cook Went to culinary school, even”

“Are you a chef?” I ask, watching as he pulls out a cutting board Then he washes his hands and I follow suit, hip to hip at the kitchen sink

“Not even close I make apps for food delivery services”

“Like SuperEat?” I ask, re takeout

“That’s one of them”