Page 18 of Dirty Chef
If anything, it was getting worse.
Six
Adam Grady
I woke up wrapped around Alessia, who’d shifted downward in her sleep to tuck her head under my chin. She was dead to the world, and I indulged. I pressed my lips to the top of her head and breathed in her subtle lavender scent. She used it everywhere. It was in the scented candles in her room, in her body wash, and in her lotion.
My fingers twitched along her side when she slipped a cold foot between my calves.
Lifting my head off the pillow, I squinted into the kitchen where the clock on the wall told me I had to get my ass in gear. My alarm would go off in ten minutes anyway. Fuck, I didn’t wanna leave my spot.
Then Alessia stretched out and yawned, pressing her delectable body against mine, and slid a hand up my chest. I swallowed hard and shifted my lower body away from her hip.
“I don’t wanna wake up,” she mumbled drowsily.
“Me neither.” I stole one more whiff, burying my nose in her hair, and stroked her lower back through the hoodie. “How’re the cramps?”
“Temporarily dead.” That was good. She yawned again and inched away enough to peer up at me. “You’re the best. You know that, right? You may be a slob, but you take care of me.”
I pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m the neatest person I know.”
She let out a laugh. “That’s funny.”
I smiled and reluctantly moved off the couch. “We take care of each other.” I groaned as I stretched my arms over my head, and my knees popped. As if I needed a reminder that I was getting old. “You might even call this a friendship with benefits.”
She gigglesnorted and dragged herself up. “I suppose that’s perfect for Mr. Commitmophobe.”
I didn’t know about that, but I could certainly think of a few benefits to add to our relationship.
Such as filthy sex and my last name in her passport.
“Sigh. Okay.” She stood up and winced. “You make coffee. I’ll go get ready.”
“Yes’m.” I trailed into the kitchen and let out a yawn. That dumb magazine caught my eye again, and once the coffeemaker was brewing, I couldn’t help but flip through the pages. I wanted to read the stupid advice they gave women on how to seduce a man.
Fun fact, it wouldn’t take ten things.
“All right, let’s see…” I rubbed a kink out of my neck and scanned the first two pieces of advice. Jesus H, a lengthy novel basically to tell women to wear revealing clothing. I mean, it’d definitely work, but… Didn’t seem very…what was the word? Progressive?
The second one was legit. Laugh at our jokes. We enjoyed that.
The third was absurd. Become interested in your future man’s hobbies. You couldn’t fake that shit. Was this magazine from the fifties?
Number four on the list, casual touches. Yup, legit too. When Alessia touched me, she had my full attention.
I heard her behind me, coming out from her room, so I turned around to lean against the kitchen island, and I read number five to her. “Ten ways to seduce a man—item number five. ‘Run a little hot and cold.’ What the fuck? I think that’s how you lose a guy. Or give us whiplash.”
Alessia laughed and joined me at my side to see the text. “What’s next, say things are fine when they’re not?”
I grinned, side-eyeing her. At least she was wearing something decent now. The shorts had been replaced by yoga pants, and she’d put on a black Coho Bar & Grill tee.
She read the next one. “Send flirty texts.” Then she looked up at me for my opinion.
I nodded. “Yeah, if you send me flirty texts, I’ll be seduced in a heartbeat.”
It was funny, or fucking sad, how she interpreted the sheer truth as a joke.
“I’ll make sure to send you plenty,” she teased and patted my arm.
“Please do. I think you have my number.” I set the magazine aside to pour us some coffee in our to-go mugs.
She picked up the magazine to read another. “If he’s a flight risk, indicate that you’re looking for something casual. Jeesh.”
“See, that’s where we leave seduction and start talkin’ hostile takeovers,” I said.
She hummed.
Once I had our coffee, we made our way downstairs to nail this lunch dish.
I was thinking something simple before the main event. A salad with my Italian dressing, olive bread, plenty of parmesan, and grilled eggplant stuffed with cheese and marinated garlic.
Alessia had been right. I couldn’t have a bunch of options for this menu. We didn’t have enough time, and the number of dishes was already going to consume our kitchen—both the one behind the bar and the actual kitchen. The only things we made alterations for, ever, were allergies.
