I swallowed through the dysfunctional lump in my throat. “What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Forcing a confession.”
“Wh-what?”
“Confess, Vera. Confess that the review was yours and that you didn’t mean it.”
I rolled my eyes, faking bravado. “Never.”
His head dropped, the heat warming, shifting, evolving from one kind of frustration to another. His gaze dropped to my mouth. “Vera,” he warned.
I shivered at the way his deep voice curled around my name. He was so close. So intimidating. So something I wouldn’t let myself admit.
“Tell me it’s yours,” he demanded.
Shaking my head, I realized I should have been afraid of him right now. The trauma of my past should have triggered all kinds of fear and panic and desperation. I should be kicking and screaming or at the very least curled up into a helpless ball of uselessness.
Instead of freaking out, I felt something different, something fluttery and hot and hungry. At the same time, I realized I was taunting Killian on purpose, seeing just how far I could push him, I admitted that I wasn’t afraid of him. That I even might have, sort of, trusted him.
At least I trusted him not to hurt me.
If I would have imagined this scenario yesterday, I would have denied it. I would have stood by the fact that every executive chef, maybe every man on the planet (except my dad and Vann), were the same. They all had excessive egos and the need to be coddled, worshiped and obeyed. And when they didn’t get their way, they took it out on whomever could be hurt the most.
Yesterday, I thought all men were assholes, and the lead asshole of them all was Killian Quinn.
Today, he’d made me acknowledge the truth. Killian could be an asshole, but he wasn’t only an asshole. And he was a man, but he wasn’t a bad man.
Most of all, he wasn’t anything like one man in particular.
And that was huge for me. Not only did I not distrust Killian, but I trusted him. I trusted him not to hurt me physically, verbally or emotionally. Maybe he’d said some exasperating things in the past, but they hadn’t been meant to manipulate or control me. He hadn’t been spiteful or mean for the sake of being mean.
Most of all, they hadn’t destroyed whole pieces of me at a time. If anything, I’d become a better chef because of him.
That didn’t mean he was completely forgiven for past actions or that my Yelp review wasn’t completely justified. But it did mean that maybe I wasn’t completely broken after all.
“Make me,” I dared him.
His eyes dropped to my lips again, and I resisted, but barely, the urge to lick them. “Admit that it’s yours and I won’t have to torture you.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “I’m terrified. Really.”
Half his mouth lifted in a cocky smile. “Good.” Then he extracted his revenge. By tickling me.
The bastard.
One hand clamped down on my right hip. I was so surprised at first, that I squeaked. But then he pressed his thumb into a sensitive spot, and I started to wiggle. His other hand grabbed my other side, and I looked like a lunatic trying to shake him off me.
I gasped for air as his hands moved over my torso from hip bones to ribs, poking, squeezing and prodding until tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. He didn’t let up. He tickled me until I didn’t think I could breathe—until I was positive that I was going to die from being tickled too much.
“Okay!” I panted. “You win! You win!”
“Admit that you wrote the review,” he demanded.
And since he hadn’t stopped tickling me yet, I nodded furiously. “Fine, I did it. I’m Nanananabooboo!”
He backed off a little, but not enough. “Now, tell me you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” I laughed, now that it was easier to breathe. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.”
He stopped tickling me, but his hand remained on my waist, and I realized my fingers had grasped his t-shirt in a desperate attempt to shove him off me. It hadn’t worked. Apparently, I’d decided to cling to him instead.
We were intimately close. Our bodies draped over each other from our tussle, hot everywhere we touched, buzzing with new energy and new interest.
He had what he wanted, but he didn’t pull away. “Now I’m going to need you to remove the review completely."
His intense, serious expression stole my amusement and revenge fun. I wanted to wiggle under his stare, but we were too close. Wiggling would only lead to more trouble. “What if I really feel that way?”
His eyes flashed with uncertainty. “Do you? Feel that way I mean?”
I nibbled my bottom lip, but couldn’t convince myself to lie. “No,” I whispered. “Not even a little bit.”
His head dipped toward mine again, closer, within biting distance.
Within kissing distance.
“Then will you remove your mean review? Please?”
It was the please that did it. His please would always do it. The word sounded too fragile for his filthy mouth, too sweet to come from someone so hard. I didn’t stand a chance.
I patted the counter blindly until I found my phone. Making a show of unlocking it and pulling up the Yelp app, I went about removing my review from the site.
I hadn’t planned to keep it up anyway. But I had been curious to see how long it would take him to find it.
Three days.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one obsessed with reviews.
I showed him the confirmation screen. “There. All gone.”
He dropped his head in relief, his forehead brushing my cheek. “Thank you.”
“I hope your ego recovers,” I joked to untangle us from this spot—figuratively and literally. He was still leaning over me, making all my neglected girly parts wake up and pay attention.
He chuckled, his chest vibrating against mine with the sound. “My ego is never safe around you, Delane.” Lifting his head, he caught my gaze and held it. His hands brushed over the counter and over my hips. For a second I was afraid he was going to start tickling me again, but then his fingertips dipped beneath my white t-shirt and his hands wrapped around my waist instead. “Thank you for removing the review.”
“You already said that,” I whispered, nervous and excited and confused all at once.
“I mean it, though.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a sincere smile. “I just wanted you to know.”
All I could do was blink. I knew he was going to kiss me. I just knew it.
And I was right. He closed the distance between us, his lush mouth finding the corner of mine and placing a sweet, lingering kiss.
I squirmed when his beard scratched my skin, brushing over it with an interesting mix of soft and rough. I decided very quickly that I liked the feel of his beard on my skin.
I liked it a whole lot.
He kissed me one more time along the jaw, then he pulled back, separating us entirely. I shivered again, but this time it was because I missed the heat of his body, the cover of his skin against mine.
“Break a leg, chef,” he murmured, sounding as hot and bothered as I felt.
“You too,” I croaked.