Page 13 of The Crowned Garza

It smellsdivine.He might be a fraud in life, but in the kitchen, he’s the real deal.

I wanna meet his mamma.

I pick up the cutlery to dig in but pause and look up at him when he pours ice-cold sparkling water into the flute. “All that polishing just to give mewater?”

One brow arches censoriously at me above his glasses.

Oh, right, I’m supposed to be “drunk.” The whole reason why we’re here. To “sober” me up.

How am I screwing up my own lie?

Backing down, I cut into the steak and fork a slice into my mouth. And I barely hold back a moan. It melts on my tongue in a pirouette of buttery-garlic-rosemary flourish.

I don’t want to compliment this fraud in any way, but it’s a struggle to keep my appreciation for this dish off my face. Not that he appears to need a compliment from me. His confidence in his skills is evident in his diverted attention, his focus entirely on whatever’s on his phone, a small crease between his dark brows.

Leisurely, he strides across the room. His legs are so…long. Gobbling up the distance to the side station. He leans back against the counter and lifts the phone to his ear.

When his gaze abruptly flicks to me and catches me watching him, I resist the urge to blush, to look away. Whatever, let him know I’m watching. Let him know I think he’s full of it.

That’s how the next fifteen minutes ensue. While engaging in a full-blown conversation in Italian on his phone, he watches me watch him as I eat.

And holding out from buckling under his strong, intense stare is no easy feat. I don’t want to give in and let him win, but he’s…a lot.

Making a face, I set the cutlery down. “This meal is too salty.”

With a slight frown, he drops his gaze to the plate that’s almost empty in front of me. When his eyes flick to mine again, it’s with a cocksure twinkle that conveys the only thing salty in this room is me. In the next second, a scowl skitters across his features as realization dawns that he’s been tricked.

An unapologetic grin stretches my lips. There’s no shame in being a cheat.

He mutters incomprehensible words to the recipient on the other end of the call, then hangs up and straightens from the counter. “Done?”

“That was a long call,” I comment. “Was that the side piece? Wifeys don’t usually get that much attention.”

“I don’tcheat.”

Walked right into that one, didn’t I?“Since you cooked, I’ll wash up.”

He waves me off. “Don’t worry about it. Come on, let’s go.”

“No. It’s not in my nature to leave a kitchen dirty—”

“I said leave it. Come. Let’s go.”

The stringent edge to his tone makes me bristle. “Do you try to boss me around because my brothers bossyou? Is this some kind of can’t be ‘the man’ at work so beat the woman at home type of thing?”

At that, his jaw clenches. Hard. Eyes frosting over behind his glasses, he white-knuckles the phone in his hand.

“Tillie…” he forces through clenched teeth and takes a step forward. He pauses, closes his eyes, and inhales a deep breath.

When his eyes sweep open again, the frost is gone. His shoulders visibly relax. Mask firmly back in place.

No.

No, you faker.Lose it! Show me who you really are.

“Fine.” He motions submissively toward the sink. “Wash up. I’ll wait.”

Who are you?