Page 14 of BillionHeir

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Chloe

He can’t be serious.

I am still reeling from the walk between the pool and the house.

The connection between us was electric and I separated from him as soon as I could, but not before my commitment to stay as far away from him as possible was already weakened.

I was hoping to come into the kitchen and have a few moments by myself to recover, but instead, I can hear Maxwell’s slow and steady footsteps following after me.

Whether I want his help or not, I am going to get it.

I try to think of a quick and easy recipe to limit the amount of time that we have to spend in the same room together.

I have been pretty successful keeping him at arm's length since we almost kissed two weeks ago. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold him off forever, especially not as he regained his strength, but I was hoping that I would have more time to fortify myself.

I find my resolve weak when he is in the same room as me.

I fantasize about what it might be like if I hadn’t pulled away from him.

If I were here under other circumstances, maybe things could be different.

But then I remind myself that he was in a life-threatening accident, and he is vulnerable.

My physical desires should be the furthest thing from my mind right now.

He is my patient. That is it. That is all he can ever be. I am not the kind of girl who can be bought, even for five million dollars.

“What is on the menu?” Maxwell asks as he slides onto one of the barstools with surprising fluidity considering his injuries.

I debate whether a simple recipe that can be prepared quickly would be better than something with several complicated steps that take longer than his stamina will allow.

“Lasagna,” I suggest, opting for the latter.

“Sounds delicious,” he says, licking his lips.

My knees suddenly feel weak as I watch his tongue moisten his lips.

I shake my head as I take a slow breath in, trying to get control of myself.

To help snap out of it, I pull off the hoodie I had on to keep the chill at bay and put on the apron I have taken to wearing when I cook, avoiding eye contact with Maxwell as I do it.

“It was my Nan’s recipe,” I explain as I set about getting all the ingredients I will need to make the dish. “It is very complicated. I hope you are up for the task.”

Maxwell looks over his shoulder as though I am speaking to someone behind him. “Are you talking to me? I am up for anything.”

I cock my head to the side, picking up on his double meaning, but refusing to feed into his behavior. He is allowed to want me, I suppose. That doesn’t mean he is going to get me, now does it?

I roll my eyes and get going on the meal, starting with browning the meat for the sauce. Once that is cooking, I start measuring out the flour for the pasta I am going to make.

“ Homemade pasta?”

“You don’t miss a thing, do you?” I look up and give him an icy smile before getting back to work.

“What can I do to help?” he asks rather than continuing the childish argument I just started.

“Grab the eggs,” I say, nodding at the refrigerator which the chef from the city freshly stocked just this morning.

We have settled into somewhat of a routine lately.

The vastly overpaid chef that is supposed to be cooking all of Maxwell’s meals has started just bringing fresh ingredients every day for me to cook with.

Preparing meals isn’t exactly part of my job description, but I am finding I quite like it.

When I worked at the rehab center, I was responsible for several patients at a time, but even then I struggled with the downtime.

Now, with just one patient whose care needs are decreasing by the day, I am finding myself with far too much time on my hands. Cooking helps with that.

The chef will still bring prepared meals if I ask, but after talking to him, we both decided this way is better.

If I want a particular meal, I can ask for him to bring the ingredients the next time he comes, otherwise he provides me with seasonal veggies and a selection of meats, and I am given free rein to make what I see fit.

“This is going to take hours,” Maxwell says with a sigh after watching me multitask for a few minutes.

“You are welcome to take a nap,” I say, arching an eyebrow at him as I sift some more flour when the dough on the counter is a little too moist. “You are the one who offered to help.”

“I didn’t think you were going to choose something that takes forever to make. At this rate, we are going to be here all night.”

He is right, of course. I am banking on the hope that he will get bored and give me the space I need right now. “It will be worth every single minute. Just you wait. ”

“Your Nan better know good lasagna,” Maxwell says, grumbling.

“Are you doubting her?”

He throws his hands up defensively. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Stir the meat,” I command when it starts to sizzle loudly, effectively ending the discussion. He may be on to me, but there is not much he can do about it.

He rises from his seat at the bar and walks around to the stove, his bicep brushing against my shoulder as he goes.

The physical contact makes me blush, and I have to squeeze my lips together to avoid letting out a gasp.

I force my feelings down, hoping he didn’t notice my reaction, and take my frustrations out on the pasta dough that is forming on the counter.

“Well, if I am going to help, I want to do more than stir the meats around in a skillet. Give me a real job,” Maxwell says after a few more minutes of silence between us.

Clearly, my attempt at driving him away isn’t working. No matter how much I try to think of something, anything, that doesn’t involve him in the same room as me, I come up empty. Maybe if I keep at it, he will get tired and let me work in peace.

I sigh, wiping my hands on my apron, satisfied with the ball of dough I just created, then turn toward the pantry while it rests.

I grab the mixer and pasta roller attachment I will need for the noodles and bring it over to the counter.

Then I go to the fridge and pull out the mozzarella, parmesan, and ricotta cheeses, as well as the jar of red sauce.

My nan probably wouldn’t approve of a premade tomato sauce, but the chef has been stocking the fridge with his own, locally famous, red sauce.

When I tasted it, I knew immediately that it was far better than anything I have ever made.

I might have an Italian grandmother, but I know when to cut corners, and this sauce is worth it.

“Heat this,” I say, pointing to the sauce. “And mix these.” I gesture to the cheeses.

“Got it,” he says, nodding before reaching down to grab a saucepan. I am a little surprised that he even knows where the pots and pans are. He hasn’t expressed an interest in cooking the entire time we have been staying here. In fact, he has hardly seemed to have noticed the food he was eating.

I just assumed that he didn’t really care. And maybe he still doesn’t. Maybe he is just here to get under my skin. Whatever the reason, I am a little off my game.

But I am not going to let him see that.

As he tends to the meat, cheese, and sauce, I continue working on the pasta.

This is the most intensive part of the recipe, and I really have to concentrate in order to get the tension just right so that the noodles come out perfectly.

I get so focused on making sure that the pasta has the right thickness that I don’t notice when the long sheet of pasta begins to stretch and rip .

Just before it falls to the floor, Maxwell wraps his arms around me, scooping his arm underneath the falling dough from right behind me to catch it just in time and with the perfect technique.

I gasp as I twist my head to look up at him and straight into his eyes.

For the moment, it is just the two of us, wrapped in a bubble where nothing else exists.

Time seems to stand still. The look in his eyes is unlike any I have ever seen before. Closed off, yet open to whatever is growing between us. The contrast is stark.

But then I blink and look down, anything to break the connection that was pulsing between us, unprepared for how his body makes me feel. It does little to subdue the rising tension between us, but it is something at least.

“You were so into it, I didn’t want to startle you,” he says, looking down at me with a smile on his face.

“It takes some concentration,” I say, looking back down at the counter to avoid meeting his eyes again.

“No worries,” he says, gently folding the pasta over the drying rack and then going back to what he was doing.

“I am almost done here. How are you doing over there?” I ask as I squeeze another length of pasta through the machine.

“We are good to go. I am curious, though,” he says without elaborating.

“About what?” I have no idea where he is going with this.

“You make your own homemade pasta, but not sauce? ”

“Chef Matthew brought some of his,” I say, trying to hide the blush of embarrassment at not making it on my own. My Nan would probably haunt me if she knew what I was doing, but all the chopping and dicing, sauteing and simmering is just a bit more than I care to get into.

“Chef Matthew, huh?” Maxwell says, incorrectly reading my embarrassment as desire.

Rather than trying to explain myself, I stay quiet.

We fall into a silence that would be considered anything but companionable.

Everything he does is charged with a subtle aggression.

It is clear that he is in a sour mood that was directly caused by me.

And my plan to make him leave me alone does not seem to be working.

I finish cutting the pasta at last. Dusting my hands on my apron, I examine the fruits of my labor. The noodles laid out all pretty over the rack gives me a feeling of accomplishment.