Page 12 of The Pucking Fake Marriage (The Ice Kings #4)

ELEVEN

A RECIPE FOR TROUBLE (KEN)

“Didn’t expect to be back here, you know, ever.”

I ignore Blake, pushing open the door to Charlie’s restaurant so the rest of the guys can saunter in. Almost everyone on our team wanted to eat out after the workout today. About a dozen of us pile in. Blake waits until everyone else is inside before he follows, falling in step with me.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that you didn’t even have to be the one to suggest we eat here? Looks like business is going well for your….” he snickers “… wife.”

I look around the place. It couldn’t be more obvious that a lot of things have changed. True, the walls are still in need of a fresh coat of paint, and the furniture is rigidly the same. But the place has come alive. There are servers at the counter, and the blackboard on the wall lists several dishes in a feminine, cursive script. Also, even though it’s almost ten p.m., there are still half a dozen customers in the restaurant, some of whom throw us curious looks as we settle across three tables.

Blake’s right, sans the annoying comment. This place is doing well. Good enough that it was another player who suggested we eat here before going home. So, we squeezed into several cars and drove to Charlie’s place.

Blake leans across from me after we sit down. “We haven’t had time to talk, you know, about how your marriage is going,” he snickers again.

He would’ve almost fooled me if his lips weren’t twitching at the corners. “Fuck you, asshole.” Two servers come bustling up to us. I take one of the menus offered, scouring through the choices.

“Can I have a cinnamon bun before we order food?” I ask the waitress, jabbing the words on the menu.

“We don’t have those right now,” she says, smiling politely. “We ran out. But could I interest you in a pecan pie, if you want to start with something sweet?”

“No, I’ll have steak with a side of vegetables and potatoes,” I say, my gaze focused on the menu again. I’m dimly aware of Blake giving his order, as well as the other guys doing the same. When the waitress leaves, Blake turns back to me.

“Let’s hope you enjoy your wife’s food.”

My fingers fold into fists. “Say that again. Only louder, in case someone hasn’t heard you.” The other guys at my table are speaking to each other in low tones, but if Blake repeats “wife” one more time, everyone will start noticing.

“Oh, come on.” Blake chuckles, giving me a friendly clap on the back. “You know I’m kidding.”

All things considered, he could be making things a hell of a lot harder for me. My friends took it in stride when I announced that I’ve been in an arranged marriage for months. There has been almost no teasing. Mostly because this is the first free night we’ve had in ages.

“I can tell you hate the menu,” Blake says now.

“Not really.” I scour down the list again. I hadn’t had the time to look thoroughly the last time I was here, but it’s obvious Charlie gets her inspiration from my mother. Most of these dishes were a staple in the Edwards household.

Blake pulls my attention away from what I’m looking at. “How’s married life treating you? Really?”

I’m almost convinced he’s not joking this time, and that makes me answer more easily. “A whole lot of nothing.”

Blake raises his brows. “How so?”

“We sleep in different rooms.” I keep my voice in a careful monotone, not wanting Blake to drag more information from me than necessary. “She’s as busy as I am, so we barely have time to interact.”

Except for that one night when I could almost swear that Charlie was coming on to me.

There’s no use talking about it, though. Or even thinking about it. It happened three days ago, and I’ve barely seen her since. Hell, there’s nothing much to it, especially when you consider that it had ended awkwardly. Or normally, if I think about it. Charlie closing up faster than a clam and backing away for absolutely no reason.

Got to say, I’m getting sick of it.

That night was torture. Charlie’s hands on me, somehow a million times better than it felt when we were teens. Her palms brushing past my chest, fingers scraping my nipple…

What I wouldn’t have given to throw her down on the floor and explore every damn inch of her.

But I made a promise. I knew being around her was going to be hell. And yet, I went for it.

Maybe not total hell.

I look down at the menu, and a reluctant smile tugs on my lips. Our conversation about food did feel good. A bit like old times. Me helping Charlie with a problem. She did consent to me helping her out with the menu. Her shutting down at the end of the night doesn’t change that.

Our food arrives. It’s good. Could be better, though. I glance at Blake for his opinion, but he’s already deep in conversation with our other teammates. In fact, all of them are now paired up, discussing the last game. But I’ve got other things on my mind.

Maybe I can get started on helping Charlie right now.

Rising to my feet, I look around for the nearest server. “Where’s Charlie?” I ask.

There’s a brief look of confusion on his face that disappears almost instantly. “Back in the kitchen. Probably trying to close up for the night.”

“Where are you going?” Blake calls after me, looking almost wary.

I flash him a smile. “To check on my wife .” The server’s jaw goes slack instantly. “Take me to her.” I chuckle.

Waving goodbye to Blake, I follow the stunned man. This time, he doesn’t take me under the counter, instead he slips into a small corridor. He nods toward a door and disappears.

I open it and walk in. The space is instantly recognizable as part of Charlie’s kitchen. Only that this room seems to be an offshoot of the main one. She’s alone. Her hair is tied up in a neat bun, wearing a fitted shirt and a long flowy skirt that reaches her ankles. And she’s making—or at least trying to make—cinnamon buns.

She’s in the midst of a huge mess, and I can spot two discarded trays with the pastry. One of them has all the dough burned to a crisp. Still, something about the image makes my groin tingle with need.

Everything Charlie does makes me want to ravish her. Even messing up my favorite treat. Maybe it’s for the best that she keeps shutting down.

Makes it easier to keep my promise.

She looks around the second I walk in. “Ken,” she says, clearly startled. “How are you here?”

“The guys decided to get a bite to eat here. Wasn’t even my idea. You’re getting more popular than you know.”

“Well, then,” she says, in a more relaxed tone, “I better learn how to make these, and fast. Someone ate here and made a video about it online. Said our cinnamon buns are the bomb. And I can’t figure out how to make a good batch without ruining it.” She nods morosely to the two discarded trays, before looking down at the mess in front of her, a new batch of dough she’s trying to mix.

My lips are twitching much like Blake’s right now.

“I’m going to kill you if you laugh at me,” she says, waving a finger in my face. “I know I suck at it, but you did imply that with practice, I’ll get better. I’m putting in the effort. Downloaded a dozen recipes this morning, and I’ve been working on it since. I really want to figure it out before going home tonight.”

“Oh.”

Charlie’s been coming home later than usual over the past three days. I thought she was avoiding me. It’s only now that I realize she must’ve been trying to work on her recipes since our last conversation.

“No mocking.” I raise my hands in surrender. “Only…I think I can figure out what was wrong with your previous batches.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “I left the burned ones in the oven for too long,” she says, pointing at the tray. “And for that one…” she nods toward the second tray, loaded with bu mpy looking rolls. “I probably forgot to add enough milk or something.”

Classic Charlie, can never admit not knowing in any situation. It’s going to feel good to knock her down a notch. Still, I decide to hold off on that until later.

“Let me see you work on this batch, then,” I say, crossing my arms.

She nods, her face registering my challenge. Turning back to the table, she starts to knead the too-dry dough. Her movements lack the grace and effortlessness they had when she was touching me.

“I’ve got to say,” she mutters, huffing and puffing with each breath. “Kneading didn’t seem this hard in any of the videos I watched.”

My lips are quivering again. “Maybe because they put enough eggs in the dough.”

She looks up at me, a face a mask of horror. “Oh my God, that’s it! How did you know?”

Brushing past her and heading for the refrigerator, I retrieve a crate of eggs and hand it to her. “I just do. The dough is way too dry.”

“Damn,” she spits at me as she reaches for an egg and tries to crack it open with a fork. There’s barely an indent the first time. She applies more force. The egg shatters, content spilling all over the counter and her skirt, missing the dough completely.

“Great,” she says, looking down at the skirt. “Just freaking great.”

It’s too much of an effort to hold back laughter. I walk over to her, coming up behind her. An idea forms in my mind. “Remember when I said that you were the best masseuse I’ve ever known?”

She stiffens, and I wonder if she’s bracing for me to ask her about ballet again. Something about me mentioning it makes her shut down. As determined as I am to figure out why, this is more important.

“Well, yeah,” she finally says. The warmth of her skin is evident, even with the sliver of space between us. It gives me a slightly heady feeling I have to work through.

“What makes you a good masseuse?”

She scoffs. “Not skill, that’s for sure.”

“You’re partly right.” I take her dough-soiled hands in my bigger ones. Charlie shivers, and I long to press myself against her ass. Instead, I try to focus on the lesson at hand. “What makes it easy for you is that you go with the flow. You don’t try to make everything perfect, according to some recipe. You follow your instinct.”

I crack two eggs in the dough. Taking Charlie’s hands again, I start to help her knead it. Something about our fingers mixing together in the dough makes its own kind of magic.

One that makes it fucking hard to remember my name. Or my promise.

“This is good enough,” I say, a few seconds later.

Charlie gives a rueful thanks as she steps back and examines the mess on her skirt. “I knew I should’ve worn an apron. I just thought making this wouldn’t take a lot of time…and that was five hours ago. I hate wearing stained clothes.”

“There’s an easy fix for that,” I smirk. “Take off your skirt.”

Damn it. Didn’t mean to say that. Something about the tension building up in my groin is making it hard to sort through the thoughts that should just stay in my head.

Charlie stares at me for a few seconds. I hold her gaze, trying to read her expression and decide whether she’d want an apology or not.

But then…

Bringing her hands to her waist, she slides her skirt defiantly down her thighs. It slips past her knees, forming a puddle at her feet. Then she steps out of it.

I let my eyes trail up the expanse of smoothly toned legs and thighs, and…

She’s wearing a tiny black thong. The triangle-shaped piece of fabric barely covers a quarter of her pubic area. Her naked hips flare out underneath her top. Perhaps I never quite appreciated how damn curvy she has become since she stopped dancing. Or maybe I’m just noticing that for the first time.

Her gaze is still fixed on my face. I look into her eyes. Charlie’s unreadable half the time these days, but I can see her emotions in them as clear as day.

She’s challenging me. Trying to make it that much harder to hold on to my promise.

I take a deep breath, silently accepting the challenge. This is a fun game. One where I’m going to see just how long I can hold on.

She turns around to take the rolling pin. Her ass cheeks are completely bare, the G-string lost somewhere within her folds. Miles and miles of unblemished skin taunt me as she leans over the dough and starts to roll it out.

Fuck.

I want to help out with the cooking. Hell, that’s why I came looking for her. But Charlie is putting on a once-in-a-lifetime show, and to stop looking at her cheeks bouncing with each of her movements is death itself. I can’t— won’t stop watching her move .

Plus, the moment I close the gap between us, I’m going to thrust my throbbing dick into her.

Charlie continues to roll out the dough. The silence between us lengthens. From far away, I can hear some noises from the main restaurant that clues me in on the fact that the place is closing. My crew must have left by now, Blake probably having figured out that I’m busy. Also, Charlie’s employees clearly don’t check in with her before they leave.

We’ll be alone. That’s only going to make this so much easier…or harder, depending on whose side I’m on.

I keep watching her roll the dough, letting myself focus on the more alluring details about her. The wisps of her hair that have slipped out of her bun and are now across her forehead and nape. Her nipples, hard as buttons, clearly visible behind her shirt. The shiny, taut skin of her toned legs.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If I thought that massage did something to me, I was wrong. It’s taking every ounce of will in my body to remain where I am.

“Think it’s thin enough?” she asks a while later, turning to face me. Her voice is casual enough, but the quiver in it is hard to miss.

She knows damn well that I don’t give a damn about the buns right now. That I haven’t been watching the roll for the past few minutes.

Still, I tear my gaze away from her body and look down at the dough. It looks like she followed my advice on not thinking too deeply about it. Either that or it’s easier for her to let go of control when she’s standing butt naked in front of me .

“Good,” I say. “Let’s see you add the cinnamon and sugar.”

Charlie’s ass jiggles as she rises on her tiptoes. Her fingers scrape the edge of an overhead cupboard, and she pulls it open. My chest tightens at the sight of her nipples pointing upward, following the direction of her hand as she tries to pull down a transparent plastic container, which seems to be filled with brown sugar.

“Here,” I say, striding up to her. Charlie gasps as I take hold of her hips and hoist her up. She’s perfectly capable of reaching for the container all by herself, but damn it, I’m going to go crazy if I spend one more second not touching her. She feels like water in my grasp: light, easy, flexible, hard to touch without getting soaked.

My groin is crying with need now. With a groan of frustration, I throw all subtleties out the window.

“Damn it, Charlie. Take whatever you need right now. Cause I’m this close to burying my face in your ass.”