Page 20 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
“That’s incredible,” she said honestly. “Pepper upfront, sage mid, nutmeg on the finish. If I could control the heat, I’d brush the coffins with egg for shine.”
“Coffins?” he echoed, amused.
“Pie crusts,” she admitted. “Different century, same hunger.”
She tilted her head, watching him. “How did you know exactly what it needed?”
“Experience,” he said, but his eyes were on her face rather than the food, watching her reaction with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “And perhaps... inspiration.”
The word hung between them, loaded with meanings she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to explore. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, more intimate, filled with the scent of herbs and the charged tension that seemed to crackle whenever they stood too close together.
“Inspiration,” she repeated softly.
“Aye.” He moved closer, close enough that she could see the way his pupils had dilated, could count the faint freckles scattered across his cheekbones. “Sometimes one finds that old skills take on new meaning when practiced for... different audiences.”
“Different how?”
Instead of answering with words, he reached out to brush a streak of flour from her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
The simple touch sent sparks racing through her entire nervous system, and she found herself swaying toward him without conscious thought.
“Different in ways that are perhaps... dangerous,” he said, his voice gone rough with something that had nothing to do with cooking and everything to do with the way she was looking at him.
“Dangerous how?”
“Because,” he said, his hand still curved against her face, his thumb now tracing the edge of her lower lip with a touch so light it was barely there, “when one cooks for someone who understands, who appreciates not just the food but the heart behind it... one finds that the simple act of nourishing becomes something far more intimate.”
Her breath hitched at his words, at the raw honesty in his voice, at the way he was looking at her like she was something precious and impossible and entirely worth the risk.
“Tristan,” she whispered, not sure if it was a question or a prayer.
“I should not,” he said, but even as he spoke the words, he was leaning closer, his other hand coming up to frame her face between his palms. “I have naught to offer save a crumbling castle and a reputation in ruins.”
“What if I don’t care about castles or reputations?” She asked, echoing the words she’d spoken in his solar what felt like a lifetime ago.
“Then you are either very wise,” he said, his forehead coming to rest against hers, “or very foolish.”
“Probably foolish,” she admitted, her hands coming up to fist in the soft linen of his shirt. “I’ve always been a sucker for brooding knights with hidden talents.”
His laugh was soft and breathless, stirring the air between them. “Is that what I am to you? A brooding knight?”
“Among other things,” she said, looking up into those impossible blue eyes and feeling like she was drowning in a winter sky. “Very attractive things. Very tempting things. Very?—”
He kissed her.
It was soft at first, tentative, as if he were afraid she might disappear like smoke if he pressed too hard.
But when she made a soft sound of encouragement and pressed closer, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, he deepened the kiss with a hunger that stole her breath and made her knees forget their basic function.
He tasted of herbs and honey and something uniquely him, and when his tongue traced her lips, she opened to him with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in her chest. His hands were warm and calloused against her face, holding her like she was something precious, something worth savoring.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, she found herself pressed against the kitchen table with Tristan’s hands braced on either side of her, his eyes dark with want and wonder and something that looked like disbelief.
“That was,” she began, then realized she had no words for what that was.
“A mistake,” he said—hoarse, unconvincing—and didn’t move an inch.
“The hell it was,” she shot back fiercely, reaching up to trace the strong line of his jaw with her fingertips. “That was the first thing that’s felt right since I landed in this impossible place.”
Something cracked in his carefully maintained control at her words, and for a moment she saw him completely unguarded—vulnerable and hopeful and terrified all at once.
“Rachel,” he whispered, her name a confession on his lips.
“Yes?”
Before he could say anything else, a heavy thud hit the table beside them. Both of them jerked back as Sir Whiskerbottom appeared, tail high, a very dead rat dropped at their elbows like a royal offering.
Rachel yelped, stumbling into Tristan’s chest. “Oh, my gosh—gross!”
Tristan swore under his breath, scooping up the carcass with knightly dignity and striding to the door. “Cats,” he muttered darkly. “No sense of timing whatsoever.”
Sir Whiskerbottom leapt to the vacated spot on the table, purring with smug satisfaction.
Rachel pressed trembling fingers to her lips, torn between laughter and longing. The taste of Tristan still lingered, bittersweet as honey and sage, and she had the terrible, wonderful sense that nothing would ever be quite the same again.