I continued to knead the back of her neck, working on the knot I could feel just at the base of it. She made a soft groan. “That feels really nice.”
“Good,” I said. “Are you -”
Charlotte’s stomach growled long and loud, and she sat up, pressing her hand against it. “Oh God, sorry. I had to work late and didn’t have time for dinner.”
“Are you warmer?” I asked.
“Much warmer,” she said. She leaned against me again before suddenly sitting up and giving me an embarrassed look. She threw off the blanket and stood up before I could stop her. “I’ll go now.”
I stood and took her hand. We walked out of the family room, but when Charlotte went toward the front door, I pulled her toward the kitchen instead.
“Mr. Steele, I -”
“Hush, please, Charlotte,” I said.
She quieted obediently and followed me into the kitchen.
“Sit at the island,” I said, pressing my hand against the small of her back to urge her in that direction.
She sat down and watched silently as I took the leftover soup I’d made for dinner from the fridge and spooned it into a bowl before popping it in the microwave. I set a spoon and napkin in front of her before opening the refrigerator. “What would you like to drink? I have water, juice, wine, or beer.”
“Water, please,” she said. “You don’t have to make me something to eat, Mr. Steele.”
“Technically, I’m not.” I handed her a bottle of water before taking the soup out of the microwave and setting it in front of her. “I’m reheating soup.”
I was weirdly pleased when she ate a spoonful, and a look of pure delight crossed her face. “This is so good. Where did you get it?”
“I made it,” I said.
“You’re a great cook.” She spooned more soup into her mouth with enthusiasm and a lack of self-consciousness that I appreciated. I loved to cook, but most of my previous girlfriends had been too calorie-conscious to truly enjoy the food I cooked for them.
Charlotte isn’t your girlfriend.
I grimaced inwardly. She was being paid to be my good girl and nothing more. Hell, Charlotte wasn’t even her real name, and I would make damn certain I didn’t ask her to tell me her real one. I’d learned my lesson with Eloise.
“Seriously, this is delicious,” Charlotte said happily. “It’s perfect. Do you enjoy cooking?”
“I do,” I said as I sat beside her.
“Was it your mom or your dad who taught you?” she asked.
“My grandmother, actually,” I said. “She and my grandfather owned a restaurant for years.”
“Oh, cool.”
It was actually a chain of incredibly popular restaurants they sold for a whopping amount of money when they retired, but I wouldn’t tell Charlotte that. Maybe she’d recognize the name, or maybe she wouldn’t, but I wouldn’t take the risk.
“So, even though you love to cook, you decided not to join the family business?” Charlotte asked.
“My father was adamant I go to university and get a real degree,” I said. “By the time I finished, my grandparents had retired and sold the restaurant.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “I was angry at first, but ultimately, I think my personality was better suited to the business world. So, my father did me a favour.”
“Do you get along with your parents?” she asked.
“Mostly,” I said in a tone that made it clear I was done talking about that subject. “Eat your soup, Charlotte.”
