Page 42 of He Has Charm

“That coffee I smell?”

The one expected thing missing from his appearance is his smile. But I jump to my feet and smile enough for both of us, overeager to start this day on a new positive footing and try for a new professional-yet-friendly relationship to clear the air now that we got the kiss out of the way..

“Coming right up.” I pour him a mug and hand it to him as he wanders around the kitchen island toward the stove, looking at the percolator as if it’s a contraption from outer space.

“Where the hell did you find this? I haven’t seen one of these since my great aunt passed away a dozen years ago.”

“One of the many great finds when you live in an old townhouse on Beacon Hill.” He gives me a once-over, still no smile, turns away and clears his throat. Sitting as far away from me at the kitchen island as possible, he takes a sip of his coffee and closes his eyes. I can tell by the look on his face that he likes it, truly appreciates it, and I wait for his approval, my grin and nerves anticipating his praise like a kid looking forward to a gold star.

But when he opens his eyes, he looks down at his cup, avoiding my eyes. I miss the gorgeous blue tease of his gaze, almost weep for it in this moment. I know that’s pathetic and all kinds of inappropriate and I wonder if this is how an addict feels and how long it’ll take me to wean myself off his addictive attention because—he interrupts my internal ramble.

“Is that French toast I smell?” I perk up like a puppy. Then I immediately calm myself, shaking my head. I need more poise with my professionalism and less of the friendly.

“Yes. I made a French toast bake. It’s in the oven and it should be ready in fifteen minutes.” He raises an eyebrow and nods. Still no smile. Not even a twitch. He stands, taking his coffee back to where he came from.

“I’ll take a shower in the meantime,” he tosses over his shoulder. Then he stops and turns. “That’s not an invitation, sugar buns.” He disappears down the hall and my mouth opens, wondering what to say, my heart thudding again. He didn’t smile, but… those were fighting words. Like the opposite of flirting. Well, shit. How do I turn that into professionally friendly terms?

Is he actually implying with the blatant reminder of my… lapse—though in my defense it was an accident that I happened to overhear him jerking off in the shower and calling my name —that I’m the unprofessional problem in this relationship?

Shit. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just as guilty as he is. The oven timer goes off, and shaking my head, I get myself into business mode and check the oven. While I wait for the last few minutes of browning, I run down my mental to-do list for something I can do right now.

Keeping myself productive is the best way to get through my time here on this assignment. Forget about Maddox—well, I mean forget about interacting with him except as-needed. I’ll focus on doing my job. Just like I’ve asked him to strictly focus on hockey. If we both do that, we’ll be fine. The time will fly by and we’ll be successful and I’ll get satisfaction each day that I’m working toward my goal of eliminating my family’s financial burden.

Walking through the entry hall, I glance at the stacked boxes and decide I can unpack most of them. The box labeled Memorabilia looks personal, though, and even though I’m curious as hell, he should unpack this one. I lift it from the stack and bring it into the kitchen where I place it on the island so he can deal with it as he sees fit.

As I finish setting our place settings—because there’s no way I’m not enjoying some of this French toast whether I have to sit with him in silence or not—and plate a generous helping for him, he returns, all dressed up in a suit though his tie is hanging untied around his collar and his jacket is slung over an arm. His plentiful hair glistens and the one wave hangs low over his forehead, giving him that quintessential bad boy look. His blue eyes flash with pleasure for a beat as he meets mine, then he focuses on the food. I drag my eyes away but it’s hard because he looks so… edible, dressed up in a business suit, far more like a man who might be my type.

I set his place on one end while I sit at the other end of the island, two empty stools separating us. He says nothing though I see his Adam’s apple bobbing and his mouth practically watering as he takes his seat. He tosses his jacket onto an empty stool, puts his empty mug down, and digs into the food.

Without being asked, I get up and refill his empty mug. He looks up for a blink, his expression schooled, and doesn’t say a word. No praise and not even a thanks. My pathetic pangs of need for some semblance of normalcy, of easy camaraderie without sexual innuendo on either of our parts, ratchets into simmering annoyance. Because now he’s just being a jerk. But can I really complain? He is being civil and that’s all I can really demand. I can’t make him like me or be his easygoing, carefree self with me.

We return to eating in silence and, as I’m wiping my mouth with my napkin and Maddox is working on his second helping, I clear my throat, ready to talk and be normal.

“I found this box of your memorabilia. I figured you should unpack it.” I point to the big brown packing box sitting on the counter to the side.

“I recognize it. I’ll take care of it.” He looks at it and then, hallelujah, his first smile of the day finally appears on his face. He stands and opens the box and rummages through, then pulls out a book. It’s a cookbook. “One of my prized possessions. Figure it should go in the kitchen. I’ll be doing my own cooking when I’m in town, su—St. John.” He looks at me like he’s expecting an argument.

“No problem. Do whatever you want in the kitchen.” I eye the cookbook. It’s a hardcover copy of Gordon Ramsay's Healthy, Lean & Fit: Mouthwatering Recipes to Fuel You for Life. “Gordon Ramsay is my favorite,” I blurt. Then I go for broke. “Mom and I fell in love with him watching Hell’s Kitchen.” He gives me a long, assessing look, the fixation of his stunning eyes impaling me and undoing all my professionally trussed-up nerves.

“We share the obsession then,” he says, cracking a small smile. “Hell’s Kitchen is my must-watch show. My only must-watch show.” He reaches into the box again. “In fact…” He pulls out a framed photograph and turns it around to show me, his smile now broad and beaming. “I met him in Las Vegas and we had a drink together—a health drink, but still.”

“Wow, that is so cool.” I take the photo from him and stare at the two of them smiling, arm in arm. Regardless of my former idolization of Chef Ramsay, my eyes keep going back to Knight and his infectious sexy grin and those teasing baby blues. “Great photo. Love that he signed it to his ‘favorite troublemaker.’ Did you sign his photo? You’re a celebrity too.”

He laughs. The sound runs through me like a magic elixir unbunching all the tension I’d been holding whether I realized it or not.

“I’m no Gordon Ramsay,” he says. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered that you think I’m at his level.” I smile and nod, warmth flooding my chest and creeping up my neck to my cheeks. Shit. I clear my throat.

“Look, about last night,” I say because I can’t stop myself. The need to clear the air as if it’s filled with poison overwhelms me. “I shouldn’t have… I mean I wanted to… but… I’m sorry I’ve been giving you mixed signals. Whatever attraction we have between us, well, we both know it’s … professionally unhealthy.” I don’t add that it’s unhealthy for me in every way imaginable, a danger to my very heart and soul, because that would be melodramatic and unprofessional. Though sadly, it would be true, exactly how I feel.

“I know,” he says. He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. I feel like a balloon after someone stuck a needle in it, deflated all at once. Why did I imagine he’d argue, tell me we should… I don’t know what.

“Oh. Of course you do. You’re more experienced in these things than I am. You’ve had millions of—well not millions, but surely hundreds of women who…”

He smiles and comes to me. “I have to go now, Harper.” He wraps his arms around me in a hug and I tense up and push away, more confused than ever because I thought we just agreed we couldn’t do this, that we’re strictly professional.

“We’re not playing house, Maddox. I’m your agent. Agents don’t hug their clients goodbye when they’re leaving for a game. They—”

“Oh come on. You’re not suggesting we shake hands, are you? You’re so much more than my agent. Face it, in spite of everything, we have to deal with the fact that we’re roommates for the duration.” I scrunch my forehead and shake my head.