Page 40 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Connor

"How did you find the time to learn to cook?" I pop the cork on the bottle of red I retrieved from my personal collection, then pour it into two glasses.

Since she’s chopping up tomatoes, I hold a glass to her lips.

She takes a sip of the wine, swirls it in her mouth, then swallows with a sound of appreciation.

One which goes straight to my cock. I widen my stance, trying to find a more comfortable position, without having to adjust myself.

My gaze is riveted to her plump, glistening lips.

She exhales. "It tastes so good."

Unable to stop myself, I lean in and lick up the drop of red that clings to the edge of her mouth.

"It does," I agree.

She blushes and drops her gaze to the chopping board.

"James made sure we could all cook. He enjoyed eating, and when he became a teen, insisted on learning how to cook from our chef.

Then, he insisted the rest of us, too, were independent in the kitchen.

And when he moved out, he left instructions with the chef to continue teaching us. "

I place her glass down and take a sip from my own. "And was he as dictatorial in the home kitchen?"

I’ve personally never seen James throw one of his tantrums, but given how detail-oriented he is, I could believe that, in his quest for excellence, he’s very demanding on his staff.

Then, he launched into one when a TV crew was filming in his kitchen.

It resulted in a viral moment that launched his career.

Knowing James, my guess is that he didn’t give a shit that the crew was filming.

It was clear, he was focused only on putting together the best dish possible for his diners.

But the general populace hasn’t been as understanding.

It’s resulted in a lot of criticism about his demands on his staff.

"He never got angry with us, if that’s what you’re asking. In fact, he was quite relaxed and fun to be around. He’s far more exacting on his employees." She shoots me a glance. "Almost as much as you are—" She hesitates.

I complete the sentence for her. "—in the bedroom?"

Her flush extends to her décolletage.

"Yes, that’s what I was trying to say," she says in a prim voice.

She chops the garlic, her movements precise, yet also graceful. Her fingers are long and tapered. There’s a confidence about her which calls back to the fluidity I noticed about her the first time we met.

"What about you?" She moves on to the tomatoes, pausing to offer me a slice.

I take it from her, making sure to wrap my tongue around her fingers.

Her lips part. "You’re a scoundrel."

I smirk.

"Don’t look so pleased." She turns to the pan I placed on the range for her and lights the flame below it. Then adds the olive oil and garlic, followed by the chopped tomatoes.

Separately, she sets a pot of water on the other burner and adds a dash of salt. When it starts boiling, she slides the pasta in.

“Why shouldn’t I be? I have the most beautiful woman in the world cooking for me.

” And then, because I can’t keep my thoughts to myself when I’m with her, I add, “When I’m with you, the world makes more sense.

When I hear you speak, it’s like the rhythm that calms the restlessness in me.

When I’m surrounded by your scent, I feel like I’m home.

The sound of your breathing rewrites every broken piece of my past. You don’t just fill the silences inside of me—you own them.

” I take a step in her direction. “Just like you own me.”

I’ve never told anyone this. Never even believed I could. But with her, the words don’t feel like confessions—they feel inevitable. Like she reaches into the places I’ve buried and breathes life back into them.

She finishes stirring, then shoots me a sideways glance. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Of course, not.” I frown. “Why would you think that?”

“You have to admit, that was over-the-top.”

“I’ve never said anything like this to another person,” I confess.

I’ve never let anyone in this deep. But she tears through my armor like it’s made of paper, and leaves me standing there—bare, aching, and hers.

She scans my features. Whatever she sees there makes her eyes shine. A pleased look comes into her expression, which she bats away as quickly. “You don’t have to woo me. I already agreed to marry you.” She drains the pasta and sets it aside.

"Wooing you isn’t a means to an end.” I try to inject what I’m feeling into my words.

Her forehead furrows. “Didn’t you suggest I marry you as part of a proposition?”

“It started out that way, but somewhere along the way, it became more.” I speak slowly, taking care with how I phrase my thoughts.

“I enjoy taking care of you. Satisfying your needs fulfills something deep inside.

It makes me feel like the luckiest man in the entire world, and I never want to stop. "

She stiffens.

I realize the words might sound trite, but I hope she understands that I mean them.

Then she drains the pasta, switches off the flame under the sauce, and plates it out, finishing it off with a touch of parsley. Turning, she hands one over to me, then walks past me with the other. Her thick lustrous hair has fallen over her cheek so I can’t see her face.

She reaches the island and places her plate on it before sliding onto a stool.

"Could you get the cutlery?" Her voice is low.

I’m still unable to see her features. I grab the cutlery, walk back and place hers next to her plate.

"You, okay?"

She nods. And sniffles.

"Hey"—I cup her cheek—"what’s wrong?"

"Nothing." The sheen in her eyes says the opposite.

"Is it something I said?"

She nods.

I peer into her hazel eyes, which appear almost green, cast my mind back over my words, and come up empty. She must see the confusion on my face for she half smiles.

"What you said… It was unexpected."

"Why?" I incline my head.

"I don’t expect someone like you to articulate your feelings."

I allow my lips to curve in a half-smile. "You mean, because I’m a man, I have a low emotional quotient, so I won’t be able to share what I’m feeling?" I say, only half-joking.

She chews on her lower lip, a thoughtful look on her face.

"Women, score higher than men on certain aspects of emotional maturity, especially in empathy and interpersonal relationships.

Of course, these differences are largely attributed to cultural and social conditioning, not biology.

So—" She flushes at the knowing look on my face. "Sorry, that’s the nerdy side of me."

"You can nerd out any time you want," I murmur.

She holds my gaze for a second more. That chemistry always thrumming under the surface between us blooms further. She clears her throat, then glances away.

"In my experience, when you come from money, you don’t always appreciate what you have."

"You come from money and look how you turned out." I sit on the stool tucked around the corner of the island, at a right angle to hers.

She picks up her fork and begins to eat.

"You’re right. I was talking about men who are good-looking and built and have the wealth to indulge their whims. Not to mention, are as arrogant and as dominant as you—" She lowers her chin.

"In my humble opinion, the masculine of the species, when they’re entitled, act like complete twats. "

I bark out a laugh. "Hearing you speak a quintessentially British cuss word in your American-accented voice gives me a real kick."

"Annoyingly I can’t rid myself of the accent." She wrinkles her nose, looking disgusted with herself.

“Just to be clear”—I hold up a finger—“you did call me good-looking and built. Also arrogant. And dominant. Which, for the record, I’m taking as a compliment.”

I can’t help the note of satisfaction in my voice.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t stop hyping yourself up, will ya?”

God, she’s cute. My chest softens, the edges of me turning to mush.

“I’m glad I surprised you…in a good way. I plan to keep doing that—even after we’re married.”

Her lips part, and for a second, I see it—that flicker of surprise in her eyes.

“Is it only just sinking in?”

She looks away, her gaze thoughtful. Then, instead of answering, she gestures toward the food. “How is it?”

I let her pivot, pick up my fork, and take a bite. “It’s really good.”

“Thanks.” She brings another forkful of pasta to her mouth and chews. "I’ve only begun to accept that we’re getting hitched.” She tilts her head. “Of course, I’m doing it because it’s the best way to save the ER.”

I’m disappointed that she’s still using the ER to justify agreeing to marry me. Surely, there’s some part of her beginning to thaw toward me? Surely, the light I see in her eyes every time she looks at me, is because she wants me, too?

“And here I thought, it was because you’ve developed feelings for me,” I say, only half in jest.

Something flashes across her face, then she lowers her chin. “I’d be lying if I said you haven’t made an impression on me. And it’s clear, we’re physically attracted to each other—” She swallows. “As for anything else, it’s too soon.”

I sense her distress, and my heart jumps in my chest. “I don’t mean to put pressure on you.” I squeeze her shoulder, wanting to comfort her.

“Thanks.” She looks at me from under her eyelashes. “I really do appreciate that you have the connections to stop the ER from closing.”

“The Prime Minister and I are alumni of the same school.” It might be a cliché, but the old boy’s network has its uses on occasions like this.

“There must be some use of being a Davenport.

Having access to people in power, who can make a difference, is the least of it.

In fact, I believe you can help me craft the argument that should help convince him. "

She gapes at me. "You want me involved in building the case to keep Archway Hospital’s ER open?"