Page 44 of Ice Queen

“Depends, I guess.”

“Patatas Bravas,” he says, taking potatoes out of the bag he just pulled from the shelf under the counter. “Potatoes with spicy tomato sauce, and garlic aioli.”

I watch in fascination as he pulls a knife from the holder and starts chopping potatoes into perfect little wedges. “My sister makes the aioli and tomato sauce. Brings me a fresh batch with a new loaf of sourdough every week.”

Putting a pot on the stove, he adds water and a bunch of seasonings, letting it boil before dropping the potatoes in.

“This has always been my favorite snack, even when I was a kid.” He stirs the potatoes for a bit, then pulls out a big skillet and coats it with oil, not turning it on until he’s drained the potatoes and dried them off.

“Did you have a favorite growing up?” he asks, holding his hand above the pan to gauge the temperature.

I think about it for a minute, I’d usually just grab whatever was quick because my brain was already focused on something else. But I did have a comfort favorite. “Peanut butter and brown sugar toast,” I say with a smile. “But only if it was on sourdough and toasted to perfection, crispy without browning.”

His head tilts lightly to the side, and he checks the temperature again before looking at me. “I’ll have to try it one day.”

My stomach somersaults when he smiles at me. It’s easy going, comforting in a way. I nod, watching as he waves his hand over the pan one more time. When he’s satisfied it’s hot enough, he drops the potatoes in, and we’re immediately blessed with that satisfying sizzle. The smell makes my mouth water, as does the sight of this man moving around the kitchen with ease. He pulls out two mason jars of sauce, one red, the other pale white. “Try these first before I put them on yours.”

He hands me two small spoons and holds the jars out. They’re both delicious, but the garlic is definitely my favorite. “Mhh…” I almost moan. “That one.” I point to the garlic.

He smiles. “Yeah, that’s my favorite too. Wait until you try it with the potatoes.”

“I never would have thought you liked to cook.” I lick the spoon before looking back at him.

His shoulders tense, and he focuses on flipping the potatoes when he says, “Someone really important to me once told me I should be a chef one day. I’ve always enjoyed it. It’s a way to express myself off the ice.”

“They must be proud.”

He sets the spoon down, head bowed over the stove. The silence is heavy, and I’m starting to feel like I put my foot in my mouth when he looks up at me. His hair hangs in his face, eyes a light shade of pink, but he gives his head a jerk, licking his lips before dropping his eyes to the skillet. “Yeah, I’d like to think they would be.”

He flips the potatoes one more time before putting them on a plate and covering them in zig-zag lines with the garlic. My brows thread together as I try to make sense of that comment. “Would be? You don’t talk to them anymore?”

He sighs, eyes downcast as he wipes the counter where a drop of sauce fell. “I was born and raised in Spain until I was fifteen. My mom and her best friend had been models all their lives.” He chuckles, folding up the towel before finally looking at me. “They’re the type that once they get an idea, they have to exhaust every possible way to make it happen before they decide it won’t work.”

He shrugs, his eyes relaxing at the corner. “They wanted to start their own fashion company, and they got some big collaboration opportunity with the fashion department at a university down here. So we packed up our lives and moved.”

His teeth pull his lip ring into his mouth, and I swear his eyes well with tears before he gives his head a quick shake. “Her friends never made it here. But my mom carried on their dream on her own. Their daughter was the one who told me I could be a.” He raises his hands, putting his next words in air quotes. “Chef.”

My brows thread together. Never made it here? Was? “What do you-” He slides the plate across the counter at the same time that there’s a pounding on the front door that cuts off my question and makes me squeal. Maggie jumps up from where she had been at my feet and barks like she’s a guard dog and not a fluffy golden retriever.

“Ahh, the armada has arrived.” He chuckles, moving toward the door with effortless grace for a man his size.

I run my hands over my jeans, hoping that somehow that will keep me grounded enough to handle whoever the “armada” is, and maybe forget about asking questions he may not want to answer.

“I should smack you, Markus Samuels.” A feminine voice rings through the house as soon as the door opens.

“You brought Cecy?!” He cries.

Cecy? That’s ominous.

“Well, you weren’t answering your phone. And neither was Kait, so if you didn’t answer the door, she’s the only one with a key.” I recognize Abby’s voice.

“Yeah, how are we supposed to know our new bestie is safe if no one answers,” Hannah adds, the door clicking shut behind them. Oh God, I immediately reach for my bag, digging for my phone. I’m not fast enough, though.

“You made Patatas Bravas?” A beautiful woman with long, black hair asks as she rounds the corner of the island. She’s stunning, which I’m starting to think is par for the course where this man is concerned. Pretty people attract pretty people. It’s annoying.

“Hi!” She immediately comes to my side and puts her cheek against mine, kissing the air on either side.

“I’m Cecilia.” She points to Markus. “That brute's little sister.”