“I roasted that earlier. Garlic is always better when you roast it beforehand,” he explains as I look at him and nod. “Peel off two cloves and then lay the knife flat on top.”

I do as he says, plucking off a couple cloves. Declan stands behind me and holds his hands over mine, laying the knife flat on top of one of the cloves, and then grabbing the wrist of my other arm.

“Now, make a fist and slam it on top of the knife to mash the garlic,” he instructs.

With his hand on my wrist, I make a fist and bang it down on the knife, smashing the garlic beneath.

“Perfect,” he murmurs over my ear. “Do the same thing with the other clove.”

He keeps his hands on mine as I repeat the process. He then helps me prepare the sauce for the chicken, toasting the almonds and chopping up the shallots and mushrooms. Once I’ve poured in the champagne, he helps me line the dish with the chicken and pour the sauce over top.

“Would you turn the oven on? It’ll automatically set at 350, so just put it on bake.”

“Okay,” I say as I walk over to the oven and turn it on.

I watch Declan finish up, and when the oven beeps, he slides in the dish and sets the timer for thirty minutes.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks as he steps in front of me.

“You.”

“Why’s that?”

Reaching out to wrap my arms around his waist, I tell him, “I like you like this,” my words coming from a place of honesty.

“Like what?” he questions as he steps even closer, running his hands through my hair and tilting my head up to him.

“Just like this. You, laid back in your jeans and t-shirt, teaching me to do something new. I like sweet Declan,” I say softly as I peer up into his emerald eyes.

“You’re saying I’m not always sweet?”

I begin to laugh and then respond, “Most of the time you’re an asshole.”

His head falls back in a burst of laughter, and the sound causes me to laugh harder. His smile is wide when he looks back down, giving my words back to me, admitting, “I like you like this too.”

“I’m afraid to even ask,” I tease.

“Don’t ever be afraid,” he says before adding, “You’re soft. You don’t show it often, but when you do, I like it.”

His words immediately straighten my face as he runs his hand down my cheek, telling me, “I like it when you’re soft with me.”

“It’s not easy for me.”

“I know, but I want that from you.”

He’s oblivious to the fact that I intend on using his words to create the perfect venom to bite him with. So with a gentle nod of understanding, I slip my arms around his neck as he dips his head to kiss me. His hands grip my ass and he pulls me off the floor and into his arms. Looping my legs around him, he takes me over to the couch and sits us down with me on top of him. We continue to kiss, his taste of need spilling into my mouth. Hard, fast, soft, slow, licking, biting, sucking, it’s all there in the heat of him as time falters in the moment. But we both snap our heads back when the fire alarm sets off and the smell of burning food takes center stage.

“Fuck,” Declan breathes in mild amusement as he looks over my shoulder, and when I turn to see the smoke-filled kitchen, I jump off his lap and rush over to find pillowed clouds of smoke billowing from the oven.

“Shit!” I squeak out and immediately open the oven door, only to be blinded by the rushing mound of smoke.

Declan moves next to me and reaches in with oven mitts to pull out the black, charred chicken. My look of mortification for somehow ruining dinner is contrasted by his laughter, which ticks me off. He tosses the dish on top of the stove and then runs over to open a few of the sliding glass doors to air the place out and then goes to shut off the screeching smoke alarm.

“What did I do wrong?” I ask when he returns to the kitchen, and when I see he’s still laughing, I snap, “Cut the shit and stop laughing at me.”

He leans over the stove, looking at the oven setting. “Shit, Nina,” he chuckles.

“What?” I huff.

“You turned the oven to broil instead of bake.”

Embarrassment builds inside of me, and I don’t say anything as I back up to the counter behind me and stare across at the meal I incinerated.

“Well,” he says when he turns to face me. “Looks like you weren’t kidding when you said you couldn’t cook.”

“I’m so sorry, Declan.”

“Don’t be. It’s fine,” he assures, running his hands down the length of my arms.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Grinning at me like that. It’s embarrassing.”

“Why?” he questions. “Because you’re not perfect?”

I narrow my eyes at him, saying, “There are things I can cook perfectly.”

“Is that so? Now you’ve piqued my interest.”

“Out!” I demand as I start pushing against him. “I’ll fix this. Just give me a few minutes.”

He turns back, saying sweetly, “You don’t have to fix anything. All the delivery menus are in the drawer by the fridge.”

“No. You’ve given me something to prove to you, so I’m going to prove it,” I tell him. “Just . . . get rid of the charred chicken please.”

“Okay then,” he chuckles, and when his dinner is disposed of, I start rummaging around the kitchen to find the few items I need.

Truth is, I was honest with him. I have no idea how to cook. Once Pike and I were on our own, we barely had enough money to pay rent in the gutter apartments we lived in. Hell, half the time we would wind up being evicted. We scraped by our whole lives, finding liquor to be a better investment than affording a safe place to live. At least when you’re drunk, you can escape the realities of life.

So as I stand over the pan on the stove with a spatula in my hand, I look over my shoulder to see Declan closing the sliding doors. I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t attracted to him, because I am. It’s a shame we couldn’t have met in a different lifetime, but to dwell on the never-be’s is nothing but an endless path of disappointment because this is the only life in which we will meet.

Plating our dinner, one of the few things I can cook, I walk over to the dining room table and set the plates down.

“Would you grab the wine?” I call out to Declan, and when he walks over to the table with the bottle, I smile up at him as he looks at his plate and laughs.

His eyes flick to mine, noting, “You look extremely proud of yourself, and I haven’t even tasted it yet.”

“Because I know there’s no way you’re not going to like it,” I remark as he takes his seat and places the napkin in his lap.

“From the girl who teased me about taking her to the Over Easy Café,” he says as he picks up the grilled cheese and takes a bite. I take a sip of my wine, and then he finally admits, “Best grilled cheese of my life.”

We both laugh as I pick up my sandwich and begin eating with him. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt comfortable like this. It’s different with Pike, probably because he knows every disgusting piece of me, but Declan looks at me as if I’m something clean and good. It’s all a lie, but for the moment, the lie makes me feel happy and maybe a little bit whole. So we sit here, in his multi-million dollar penthouse and enjoy our dinner of grilled cheese and Pinot Noir.

After dinner, I help Declan with the dishes. We clean the kitchen up, and when everything is back in place, I notice the burnt smell still lingering. Taking a lock of my hair, I sniff it while Declan watches.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“My hair, it reeks of smoke.”

“What about mine?” he says, walking over to me and ducking his head down.

Running my fingers through his thick hair, I tell him, “Yeah, yours does too.”

He then takes my hand and leads me down the hall and into his bedroom. Flicking on one of the lamps, he walks us into the large bathroom, which houses a massive, marbled, doorless shower with a large, seamless pane of glass on one side. His and hers sinks line two of the walls in dark cabinetry with tailored, white, apron-front sinks. And along the wall of windows is an extra-large, sleek, rectangular jacuzzi tub that is sunken down. The room is modern and masculine, just like the rest of the loft.