I smile, my body warming as he holds my hand, his thumb brushing against my skin.
“Now the real question is,” he says with a dimpled grin that has my belly flip-flopping, “can you cook?”
I laugh, relieved at his ease. “I think I can cook. At least I remember helping my grandma when I was younger. But I don’t usually have ingredients that are exactly gourmet.”
His dark brown eyes melt. “Don’t worry about that, I went shopping before I came. I’m gonna go to the car and grab 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, smiling as he turns to the front door. I feel a giddy 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 smooth down my hair, feeling excitement roll though me.
Gosh, Whitaker is handsome… strong and tall, muscular, and his eyes. They make my knees all weak. And his touch? It sent a jolt of desire through me I have never felt before. It makes me want to touch him again, 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 makes a few trips to bring in his luggage. I take a sack of groceries and begin unpacking them, amazed at the luxurious items he bought. Wine, champagne, whiskey… fancy cheeses and organic maple syrup, a loaf of challah bread… everything to 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, remembering the name of the app Max used when ordering takeout.
“That’s one of them.”
“Wow,” I say, impressed. “You make apps and can cook. What else can you do, Whitaker?”
He chuckles, drying his hands on a towel, then handing it to me. We turn, side by side, to the spread of food before us. He smiles, looking over at me. “I’m not too bad at gin rummy.”
I laugh, not expecting that. “I’m pretty good at cards myself.”
“Might have to test your skills later,” he says, reaching for an onion.
My eyebrows raise, liking the sound of there being a later. “But first, you need to put me to work. I can slice, dice and wash dishes. Just tell me what to do as your sous chef.”
He wraps an arm around my waist. “Is it weird that I feel incredibly happy to have you here with me?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not weird. I was thinking the same thing.” I decide to be brave and admit what I’m really thinking. “My Christmas wish was to find a safe place and you feel safe, Whitaker. You make me feel really safe.”
His hand on my hip feels so right, and there is a charged energy between us, my core hot as we stand together, our breaths shallow. If we were face to face I’d want to stand on my tiptoes and press my lips to his.
“How about we drink to that?” he asks, reaching for a bottle of wine.
I nod. “That sounds perfect.”
“White Christmas” comes on the radio, the sentimental song the background for the wine, the sautéing veggies, the honey ham as it warms in the oven. The music setting the mood as we cook. The car in the driveway seemed like an end to my perfect stolen holiday, but it’s made it so much better than I ever dreamed
I’ve been struggling for years, but right now there is no struggle. There is no ache for something I don’t have. Whitaker takes my glass and sets it on the counter, then he takes my hand.
“Dance with me while the dinner cooks.” His other arm wraps around my waist.
Our bodies press together, the lights from the Christmas tree sparkling as we move as one. Outside, the snow falls and so do I. I just met the man, but already I am falling, hard.
I know there is a shelf life on this sort of happiness – eventually Joe and Max will find me. My stomach falls, knowing when they find me, they very well might make Whitaker pay.