Chapter 8

chapter

eight

Caroline

"Come on, Sweetness, lick it right off my body," Damien says.

The line of whipped cream snakes down between his pecs and his perfect washboard abs. I lean down but before I reach his stomach, his hand catches my face and he pulls me in for a kiss. Now we're pressed together. The whipped cream slides between our naked skin.

Our kiss is deep, slow and all-consuming.

"Damien, please," I whimper. I need him. Anywhere. Everywhere. My body is desperate for his touch.

"Caroline, you drive me fucking crazy. You don't know how much I want you. How much I crave you."

"Yes. Have me. Please. Just make the ache go away."

I wake to a knock on my door.

My skin still feels feverish, and my clit is throbbing, my nipples tight peaks. Oh my gosh! I was just having a sexy dream about him. I don't think I've ever even had one of those.

Another knock and it takes a minute for me to remember where I am. I'm in the cabin for the show. Which means it's more than likely him on the other side of my bedroom door.

I sit up and try to position myself against the pillows. I pull my thick braid over my shoulder to cover some of my skin. While I am not anywhere near being naked, my jammie tank is low cut and fits like a second skin. Nothing is more annoying than trying to move in a bed and have your clothes get tangled and bunched and twisted in the covers.

"Uh, come in," I say. My voice sounds weird and husky to my ears. I try clearing my throat.

Damien opens the door and comes in. He's wearing grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, but it's the plate in his hand that catches my attention.

He gives me one of those lopsided grins that I'd swear was practiced. But it looks too self-effacing and honest.

"Sorry if I woke you." He comes closer so he's standing at the edge of my bed.

I'm obscenely aware of the amount of cleavage I've got on display. Normally it's just me and my cats and they don't care what I wear. I'm also ridiculously curious about what he's packing in those sweatpants, but I'm not about to let myself look.

Then I remember he's already said something to me. "I was awake."

He cocks a brow at me. "Really?"

I nod. "Totally. So did you need something?"

He offers me the plate. "An apology breakfast for being an inappropriate asshole last night. My mama would have smacked me upside the head had she seen."

I take the plate from him. "She might still see it depending on the cameras and mics in the kitchen."

"True. In any case, I wanted to apologize. I know you might not believe me, but I take this competition seriously, too, and I'm not going to embarrass you."

His words are like a balm to my scarred heart. Then I look at the breakfast he's brought me. Scrambled eggs and two pieces of cinnamon toast. A sob catches in my throat because it's been a long time since someone specially made me food.

"Cinnamon toast?" I whisper.

"Yeah. I know it's a little childish, but it's what my mama always made when I was sick or sad. Just felt appropriate this morning."

I look up into his face. "Thank you. That's so very kind of you."

He frowns, then lowers to a squat so he's closer to my face. "Caroline, are you crying?"

"No, of course not."

His brows raise. "Sweetness," he says.

"I mean, yes, I am crying, but not like you think. It's just a morning thing."

His frown deepens. "You cry in the mornings?"

"Yes," I say quickly. And then add, so he won't see through my lie, "Every morning. It's like yoga for the soul. Very therapeutic."

That makes him smile. "You're adorable."

I have no response to that. It's not like I'm going to admit that his gesture has pierced my heart. That it's been so damn long since anyone took care of me that his meager plate of eggs and toast has shattered something inside of me. Something I didn't even realize was fragile and delicate.

So instead, I take a bite of the eggs, and they are literally the most perfectly cooked scrambled eggs I've ever had.

"Wow, these are great."

I shovel another bite into my mouth. It's a closely kept secret of the cooking world that perfect scrambled eggs are insanely hard to make. Decent eggs, sure, lots of people can make those.

But the line between decent and perfect is a mile wide and straight up a mountain to boot.

These eggs are insanely fluffy and perfectly seasoned.

I raise the plate to eye level and stare down the eggs. "There's something herbaceous. And just a hint of … funkiness. But I don't see any cheese. What's your secret?"

"I'll never tell."

His grin is disarming, but it's the wink that hits me in the gut.

Gah! This man!!!

Then the grin slips from his face and he nods, suddenly serious. "Chives, fresh thyme, and a little shredded Manchego."

Damn it! Why is his sudden shift from flirty to serious even hotter than that wink?

I clear my throat, nodding. "Huh, Manchego? Who would have thought?"

"But it's really all in the technique."

He grins again and, for the first time, I feel like I'm seeing his real smile. Not the practiced seductive smirk of a master, but an actual smile.

And if those practiced smirks were dangerous, they are nothing compared to the real deal.

For a second the tension stretches between us and I have to fight the temptation to toss the plate aside and climb his body like … well, like he's the Damien of my dreams.

But then he clears his throat and says, his tone teasing and gentle, "I thought you were the big shot who went to culinary school."

I shove another bite into my mouth to hide my embarrassment. Only answering once I've swallowed. "Pastry chef." I hold up my hand. "I got only the bare basics on everything else. Besides, everyone knows how hard eggs are."

"They aren't that hard," he protests and then blushes.

Wait.

He blushes?

I wouldn't have thought that possible!

Over the use of the word hard? No. That can't be it. He must just not be used to getting genuine compliments. About his food, at least. Obviously he gets compliments about those pecs and lush hair all the damn time.

He ducks his head and says, "I can teach you my technique if you want."

"Sure." I blow out a breath, glad that we really are talking about cooking and not about other hard things. "I'd like that." I gesture with the plate. "And thank you for the eggs and toast. Truly."

I stare into those pale green eyes of his.

"Of course, cher , anytime."

That Cajun accent does funny things to my girl parts. Things that remind me of that dream I was having.

"I should probably apologize for being so tart last night." I hold out my hand to him.

He stands to his full height and grips my hand.

"Truce?" I ask.

"Yeah, Sweetness, we're good."