Page 40 of When Hearts Unravel (The Orchid #6)

“I got this,” I snarl, pretty damn proud I’m not strangling Valenti with the red bandanna around his neck.

Because he’s flirting with my woman.

Only for the rest of the trip.

The warning doesn’t stick, and I shove it away. God, if Casey were here, he’d have a field day.

Valenti’s eyes widen before bouncing between Olivia and me.

“Mr. Anderson, go be an overbearing caveman somewhere else. Find your own partner,” Olivia hisses under her breath, her head dipped down, hands punching the dough.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

A different thrill sweeps through me. My Olive’s fiery temper.

Fuck, that makes my cock hard.

I shift and hide my stiffening lower half behind the counter.

Then I lean down and rasp, “I. Just. Did.”

My gaze snaps to the offending man. Back off. He shakes his head and walks away.

“Seriously, did you have to do that? We aren’t anything. Stop it.” Olivia mixes the ingredients together and throws the dough hard onto the counter.

Smack.

“You know you’re making me hard, right? I love my women feisty.”

She’s now poking the dough like it’s her worst enemy. “I’m not your woman.”

Chuckling, I slowly get behind her and step close until our bodies are a hairsbreadth apart. Reaching around, I cover her hands with mine.

Her breath hitches. “Wh-What are you doing?”

“Teaching you how to knead dough. You’re doing it all wrong.”

“And what makes you the expert, mister I have a personal chef my entire life?”

“You’re making it worse,” I murmur as I press her hands down, using the heel of our palms to work the gluten.

“What’s worse?” Her voice is breathier now.

“This.”

I look around the room, noting everyone focused on their cooking. Under the guise of teaching her, I press my hips forward, letting her feel the raging hard-on threatening to dig its way out of my pants. Thank God the island is tall enough and perfectly hides our hips away from prying eyes.

Sharp frissons tremor through me the moment her curvy ass cradles my shaft. I want to succumb to my urges, toss her over my shoulders, and carry her back to my stateroom to show her all the ways we’re perfect together, even if I can’t give her everything she’s asking for.

Yet.

The smallest moan slips out of her and she shakes—she fucking shakes in my arms.

Scratch that. I’ll just toss her onto the counter and have my way with her.

But then everyone would see her come around my cock, and no one gets to see her orgasm face except me.

Fucking shit. Now I’m most definitely indecent now.

“So damn sensitive, little Olive,” I rasp. “Are you just this sensitive to me?”

I punctuate the sentence with a small forward cant of my hips—one tortuous grind of my cock against her legging-clad ass.

I want to take her there. I wonder if she’s experienced it inside her little rosebud yet?

Someone giggles and I jolt, suddenly aware we’re in a room with other people.

Shit. Get yourself together, Rex.

Thankfully, everyone seems to be busy with their tasks and Valenti is currently hovering over Bree and Lana’s disaster that’s more water than flour. No way I’m going to taste test that shit.

Clearing my throat, I take a small step back. She has a reputation to uphold, I remind myself. I can’t jeopardize her career because I’m selfish.

I guess the Anderson manners were drilled into me—Maxwell would be proud.

Biting back a bitter grin, I curve her hands in mine, showing her the proper way of preparing the dough.

“Feel this?” I ask as I fold the dough in half and then push it away with the heel of my hand. Then, I turn it ninety degrees and repeat. “You want it smooth and elastic. Fold. Push. Turn. Easy rhythm. The texture should be just right—springy but not sticky.”

She whips her head around. “How do you know this?”

Smiling, I wink. “Rex-a-Million is not only good in the sheets.”

Olivia stiffens. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Putting yourself down. You have a lot to offer…much more than your prowess in bed.”

Warmth floods me at her compliment and a pretty pink flush appears on her cheeks. She turns to the dough and repeats the motions I taught her.

“Good girl. That’s right. It’s not just about the strength, but the motion.” The flush brightens, and I groan. “You make it so hard for me to behave.”

“I don’t think you ever want to behave, so don’t pin this on me.”

I bark out a laugh, and heads swivel toward us. Quickly, I step away from the tempting doctor and stand at her side. I take out another chopping board and dice the tomatoes for the meat sauce.

My knife snaps in a quick, staccato rhythm as I work the vegetables, the motions as effortless as breathing. And after a few seconds, I notice Olivia’s stopped moving.

Frowning, I find her gaping at my hands.

“I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. I had too many orgasms and now can’t tell dream from reality.”

I snort. “You’re most definitely not dreaming.

Because if you were,” I dip my mouth next to her ear, “you’d be wearing nothing other than a tiny apron and my cock would be buried deep inside you while you work the dough.

I’ll show you how it’s all about the rhythm, not the strength. The fucking rhythm.”

That seems to do the trick because she takes a wide step to the left.

“You’re impossible.”

“Always. There’s no standard too low for me. I aim to please.”

“Ugh,” she grumbles, clearly exasperated, but I see her lips twitch. She knows I’m joking. “How do you know so much about cooking? And your knife skills…you clearly know what you’re doing.”

Turning my attention back to the task, I smile. “My mom. We had a chef, but Mom still loved spending time in the kitchen. She used to say it was her way of nurturing us with her love.”

I think about the time the four of us, Ethan included, huddled around a low table she set up there because we were too short for the high counters.

She’d put out plates of chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven, with a sprinkle of cinnamon and nutmeg.

We stuffed ourselves, then laughed at the chocolate sauce all over our faces.

Maxwell would grumble when it got on his art. Ryland cackled as he whacked his twin with a picture book. Ethan babbled his happiness. I’d sit there, happy to be included, while Mom would wipe the crumbs from my lips.

“If you asked Maxwell, he’d say I was making shit up.

But when we were kids, I was afraid of everything.

It’s hard to believe that since I’m the Anderson daredevil now, but it’s true.

And while we’re a close bunch now, back then, we didn’t get along.

I was ostracized…the twins attached at the hip, Ethan and Lana were too young, and I didn’t know better. Girls had cooties, you know.”

She smiles as she cuts the pasta into strips.

“So it was just me, the middle child. You’re a psychiatrist, so I’m sure you’ve read about the middle child syndrome—rebellious yet people-pleasing, feeling like an outsider, the works.

Mom loved to cook, and I’d spend time with her in the kitchen.

She taught me how to be creative—make up stories, try new recipes, create fun for myself. It became an outlet over the years.”

I put the tomatoes to the side and work on the carrots. “She’d be so disappointed now, seeing what a clusterfuck I’d become. But then again, I also had a hand in her death, so…” I shrug.

Her hands stop moving. “It isn’t your fault. I’ll tell you that until you believe it. And you aren’t messed up.”

“You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not.” She touches my forearm, stilling my knife. “You have the same amount of mess we all have. You just hide it better and for longer.”

Something in my chest twitches and a heaviness sits atop my lungs. She squeezes my arm, her thumb circling the small scars she saw up close before.

“Look at me, Rex.”

“Rex, huh? What happened to Mr. Anderson?” I drag my gaze to hers and my breath throttles.

Such beautiful, soft eyes. So gentle, so kind.

“Trash festers when we don’t deal with it. Do the work and deep clean. And once you’re done, you’ll be okay again. I know you will.”

The heaviness morphs into a weighted blanket, settling over me, and I swallow.

She smiles, the whites of her teeth showing.

Her glorious hair, fastened into her usual low bun, is different this time. She let a few strands escape, and they frame her face perfectly.

Maybe she’s breaking free from the shadows.

Her eyes rove over my face as she murmurs, “Carpe diem.”

I cock my brow, knowing that’s what Mia used to say to her. But I thought there was resentment in that statement.

She shakes her head, like she knows what I’m thinking. “I’m mad at Mia, but I actually like her motto. Life is too short to live in misery, to surround yourself with trash. Clean it out. Do the hard thing. Try the scary thing. You only live once.”

Flour dusts her hair and her cheeks, getting onto her shirt.

She goddamn takes my breath away.

“And what about you?” I murmur, holding her gaze as the room fades away. “When will you deep clean?” And can I be there to help you?

Her pulse feathers her neck—the same lovely spot I still see a faded bruise she tried to cover with makeup.

My mark.

Heated blood pumps inside me, and I curl my hands around the knife and the cutting board, stopping myself from pulling her into my arms.

“They don’t even remember my favorite dish,” she replies, her eyes glistening with moisture. “You know, in my family, we don’t say ‘I love you.’ They ask me if I’ve eaten. Ni chi fan le ma?”

She rolls her lips inward. “But when they ask me that question, they always talk about Mia’s favorite food.”

I remember the outpouring of grief at Las Fallas. How she’s been trying, but failing, to be both Mia and Olivia. How her family doesn’t see her.

But I do.

“What is it, Olive? What’s your favorite dish?”

I’ll remember it, Olivia. Because I see you.

She doles out a wobbly smile. “Pappardelle al Cinghiale.”

“Wild boar ragu,” I murmur. “Can be gamey and earthy. Bold flavor.”

Bold—just like her.

“I ordered it one time we were out to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Mia grumbled because she wasn’t a big fan of Italian. I picked a dish I couldn’t pronounce just to do something interesting. I loved it. Mia thought I was nuts because she said it was gamey.” Olivia scrunches her nose.

Then she looks at me and gives me an impish smile. “I’d get it every time we had Italian if it was on the menu. It was my favorite dish. Just mine.”

My heart flips. My little Olive trying to break free. I wish I were there to see it.

Slowly, I bring my fingers to her face, then I flick the flour off her cheeks.

She draws a sharp inhale and leans forward infinitesimally.

Sharp current ripples up my fingers from the tiny point of contact.

My eyes dip to her plush lips, drawn to them like a sailor spotting a lighthouse during a violent storm.

Click. Then a bright flash.

We spring apart as the room comes rushing back.

I look up, my heart sinking when I see Greg Masters lowering his camera, a smug smile twisting his thin lips.

“Payday,” he mouths.