“There you go, my sweet girl,” I say to Lady Featherington as I get her settled in her new bed in my office.
Hardin didn’t even knock when he dropped her off the other day. He tied her to the doorknob of the alleyway door and then sent a text to let me know she was there.
Since he didn’t bring anything but her, I spent the afternoon installing a gate, so she’d stay in my office for now. Then, I got her a new bed, toys, kibble, and a fancy collar with pink rhinestones because she’s regal and she deserves the very best.
“I believe you would like a treat, Your Highness.” I hand her a pooch cookie I made myself, using dog-safe ingredients.
She gobbles it up before lying down in her bed, resting her head on her new pillow.
I give her a rub on her belly and then close the door behind me. I stop at the bathroom and wash my hands twice to make sure I don’t have any dander on my skin.
In my kitchen, I turn on my music. I don’t have an order, but for some reason, I feel like making some brittle. I get the peanuts, toss them with salt and olive oil, and pop them in the oven to roast.
Norah Jones sings to me as I dance around the kitchen and gather my ingredients to bake. After I spray my baking sheet, I pour myself a glass of wine.
There’s a knock at the door, so I check my phone to see who it is. When the handsome man I haven’t been able to get out of my mind appears, my heart pounds, and I nearly spit out my wine at the sight of Sebastian standing in my doorway.
“Shoot.” I look down at my T-shirt and jeans, feeling like a scrub. “One minute,” I say into the speaker and then run into the bathroom.
My hair is in a messy bun. I stare into the mirror, pushing back a few loose tendrils, checking my makeup, and pinching my cheeks.
Before opening the back door, I shake my head, ridding myself of all the jitters rushing through my body because I’m acting like a silly teenager. Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I open the door with a cavalier attitude.
“This is a surprise. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
He holds up an envelope. “Special delivery. I didn’t want to make you come down to the office again, so I thought I’d do the honor of delivering it to you personally.”
He hands me the manila envelope, and I unclasp the metal at the top. Inside is a document with a check paper-clipped to the side. It’s a check from Blake, Fields, and Moore, made out to me in the amount of three thousand dollars.
“Wow. This is amazing. I still can’t believe you got anything out of him.”
“In my opinion, you’re entitled way more, but that’s the amount we settled on. I hope you’re pleased.”
“Beyond. Thank you. I just wanted my dog back, so this is gravy.” I’m stunned as I run my fingers over the amount. “This isn’t from you, right? Your name is on the check.” I turn to show him like he doesn’t know.
He holds up his hands in defense. “Standard procedure. After a case is settled, attorneys receive settlement funds, and then we cut the check to our clients. This ensures your money is guaranteed not to bounce.”
“Pays to have a high-priced Philadelphia attorney.” I’m smiling big and staring at him.
It’s awkward—him in the alley and me standing inside. I’m not sure what the protocol is for something like this.
“Thank you for coming all this way.” I grin and shrug my shoulders.
“Not a problem.” He nods. It’s seems he, too, doesn’t know what else to say.
My oven timer goes off, and I remember my peanuts are inside it.
“Smells good in there. What are you making?” he asks, checking out what’s in front of us.
“Sea-salted chocolate peanut brittle.”
He tilts his head in question. “I don’t recall seeing that on your website.”
I’m flattered he paid enough attention to my website to know what is on it. “I’m pleasure-baking tonight. Had a craving.”
“I love peanut brittle. I haven’t had it since I was a kid. My grandmother used to make it.”
“Mine too,” I answer quickly and way too enthusiastically. “I’m using her recipe.”
“I never had the chance to make it with her. I wish I had, but she passed when I was just a kid.” His eyes crinkle with his words as he looks down.
It’s sweet, the way he thinks of his grandmother. If his was like mine, she must have left a grand impression on his heart.
I’m not sure entirely what convinces me that this is a good idea, but I find myself asking, “Do you want to come in? I can show you how to make it.”
“I’d like that.” He walks inside, past me, before I have a chance to process the fact that he agreed.
I close and lock the door and turn to see him in my space.
The kitchen is large, having originally been used to serve enough people for an eighty-seat restaurant. With its all-white walls and stainless steel tables, it looks almost like a sterile environment—until you look down and see the dark red tile squares with grout so old that it’s black instead of the tan that you can see in the corners and under the tables. There’s a large island in the center with massive appliances around the U-shape setting, making it possible to cook multiple items at once without having to move much.
It’s a clean workspace, esthetically speaking. I added mahogany shelves to a blank wall to bring in a homier feel, and the stools where Charity likes to sit are matching dark wood. Adding my Loui Jover painting, which Hardin left sitting outside too, on the other blank wall really brings life and color to the space.
Just when I thought my room was complete, I realize no amount of wood could provide the amount of warmth to this space as one Sebastian Blake in his dark jeans, cashmere sweater, and leather loafers. His presence alone is warm and inviting and everything this cold room needs.
“This is where the magic happens,” he muses, taking in the counter space where I have three apothecary vases filled with herbs, growing near the window.
“Where dreams come true.” I walk over to the oven, take out the peanuts, and set them on the counter to cool.
That’s when I hear Lady Featherington whimpering on the other side of my office door with her tiny nails clawing on the hollow wood. I would let her out, but with Sebastian here, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.
“Is that your dog?” he asks, pointing to my office.
“Yes. I know I’m not supposed to have an animal in a commercial kitchen, but since Hardin gave her back, I haven’t found a place to keep her. Charity is allergic, and Shawn refuses to walk a dog. I’d ask my siblings who live outside the city, and I know one would say yes, but to be honest, I just got her back, and I don’t want her to go far. Plus, she’s been shuffled from my custody, to Hardin and Mindy’s, and back to me, and I’m afraid she’ll get custodial whiplash.”
Sebastian grins that gorgeous half-smile that rises on one side as he walks over to my office door, opening it and then picking up Lady Featherington from behind the gate.
“Aren’t you a precious little thing?” he says, kneeling to the ground and allowing her to jump on his knee, sniff his shirt, and lick his face.
Her hair is a big poof with the little bow at the top of her head falling slightly to the side.
“I can see why you named her what you did. This dog is dainty. She can definitely rock the bling though.” He points to her collar as she laps up his neck.
I’ve never been so jealous of a dog before.
“Lady Featherington, no,” I command, and she follows my order.
“Nice. Glad to see she’s well trained.”
“The only perk to my ex’s new girlfriend being a dog walker was, she kept up the good habits.”
He scratches her head and then rises. “You know, when we were compiling those letters from the people in the building, I was surprised how many saw you out and about with the dog, given you had a dog walker.”
“Mindy was only around to take her out while we worked. The sh
itty part of this whole thing is, she was a really good dog walker. Reliable, helped train her, and I never worried about her stealing anything from the apartment while we were gone.”
“What will you do now that you have her back?”
“I’ve taken her for seven walks today because I feel horrible that she can only stay behind closed doors, for fear she’ll contaminate my kitchen. My loan from the bank should come through in the next week or two. I’ll look for something small around here, so I can run home on my break and walk her.”
I take Lady Featherington and head back to my office, putting her in her bed. When I turn, Sebastian is in the doorway behind me, his broad shoulders taking up the entire space and making him seem almost larger than life.
“You sleep in here?” His brow furrows.
“Yep. The futon is surprisingly comfortable, and all my clothes fit in that suitcase. I have a closet in the front, and the bathroom is a decent size. The windows are all fogged glass, so I can dance in my underwear without anyone watching.”
“Habit of yours?” he asks with a crooked grin.
“It’s a mood booster,” I state easily. “The gym next door opens at five, so I shower there in exchange for chocolate. Don’t worry; there’s a secret door, so it’s not like I’m walking outside in a towel. I bring my clothes with me and get fully ready there.”
His mouth twists. “Seems dangerous. How many men see you walk through that door?”
“Are you getting all protective of me, Mr. Blake?”
“Fiercely.” He steps back and walks over to the other side of the room. “Through here?” He points before heading down the hallway that leads to the gym. After inspecting the locks and then unlatching them, he opens the door and looks into the weight area.
I stand and watch him close the door and then relock it.
“Does it meet your approval?” I tilt my head to the side.
“No.” He clenches his jaw as he searches around my space again.
“You know, my dad didn’t even give me this hard of a time about it.” I place my hands on my hips.
He raises a brow. “Does he know you shower in there while juiced-up guys are working out?”
A laugh escapes my lips. “Do you think I shower in the middle of the room for all men to see? It’s called a women’s locker room. Every gym has one.”
His surprised expression makes me grin. I get the feeling he’s not used to being called out.
“Anything else, Mr. Territorial?” I tease.
“Doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“The fact that I shower in a gym? Of course it does, but it’s only temporary. I didn’t choose this living situation—”
“I mean, you’re not bothered by me being territorial of you?”
Oh. I blanch and think about that for a moment. “No. Not really.”
A wide smile graces his face, making his dimple appear. “Good. Now, let’s make some brittle.” He motions for me to walk ahead of him.
He heads to the sink and washes his hands, and then I do the same and meet him at the counter, where I have my ingredients laid out.
I lift the heavy four-quart saucepan and place it on the stove over medium heat.
Sebastian rolls up his sleeves and starts grabbing the ingredients I dictate to him.
“One and a half cups of sugar,” I say and watch him measure out the precise amount.
Next, he adds the water and corn syrup as I direct him, “Stir until the sugar dissolves, and then we’ll raise the heat.”
He pays close attention to the job at hand to make sure he’s got the hang of it before he turns to me. “What was your grandmother like?” he asks as he stirs.
“Funny. Glamorous. Loved to tell stories of her days in Manhattan when she danced at the Copa.”
“She was a New Yorker?”
“Born and raised. My mom too. My grandparents relocated to Pennsylvania when Mom met Dad in college and they decided to marry and settle here.”
“Family that stays together is important.”
I sense a tiny bit of remorse in his words. “Do you see your parents often?”
“Not as often as I’d like, but I do. They live in Connecticut, and it’s only a few hours’ drive. I try to see them once a month, plus the holidays, and they usually come down this way for my birthday.”
“When’s that?”
“The last week of July.”
“Ahh. So, that makes you a Leo?” I say as I get the nuts ready.
“I hope that’s a good thing.” He grins, unsure of the question, which is adorable on him.
“Very actually. It means you’re dedicated with high ideals and inspired views on life.” I laugh at how high and mighty I make him sound. “About a year ago, I was toying with the idea of making zodiac-themed chocolate boxes. Thought they’d be fun birthday gifts.”
“That’s a great idea. What did you envision for the Leo?”
“At the time, I was thinking something tried and true, like a chocolate mousse truffle.” I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “Now, I’m thinking it has to be sophisticated, like a luxurious, soft caramel, blended with gourmet sea salt, nestled inside a dark chocolate shell.” With a deep exhale, I look up at him and see the quirk of his mouth as he looks back at me with a raised brow. I clear my throat and get back to work. “So, what do you and your parents do on this annual birthday trip?”
He laughs lightly and looks down at the pot, continuing to stir. “They spend the week here before Mom has to be back on campus for freshman orientation. They love the museums, and Dad always visits colleagues over at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Dad and I catch a ball game, and then Mom has us wait in line at Geno’s for cheesesteaks because she says they’re the best. I think that’s the only time all year I eat a cheesesteak.”
“Same. Not for any real reason though. But I must disagree with your mother. I’d go with Pat’s cheesesteaks all the way.”
“I have a very important question to ask, and this could be a deal-breaker for our friendship.”
I lean back and feign seriousness. “A question that could call the whole thing off. Well, Mr. Blake, I’d best be careful with my response.”
He stands tall and asks as seriously as possible, “How do you take your cheesesteak?”
“Oh, man. I already know this is not gonna go well. A Connecticut boy is not gonna order it right. I’m a without onions, wit’ Whiz girl.”
He slaps his chest like a dagger was just pushed into it. “Cheez Whiz on a sandwich—that’s disgusting.”
I laugh. “It kind of is, but it’s the way I grew up. Probably why I don’t really eat them. How do you order yours?”
“Provolone and caramelized onions.”
I make a face of disgust. “You even order it like a preppy. Just say wit’ onions.” He laughs, and I follow. “Shame we can’t be friends anymore.”
“Agreed. We’re just gonna have to find something else to be to each other.” The twinkle in his eye is undeniable, as is the subtle, flirtatious nature of his words.
I slap my hands together and dictate to him his next instructions. “Peanuts, butter, and salt.”
Watching Sebastian cook is charming. I can see he is comfortable in a kitchen and is incredibly controlled with every action. When I tell him the candy must come to a golden-brown color, he analyzes it with purpose. For someone who behaves the same way in the kitchen, I find this level of focus to be a turn-on.
We work together through the next steps of the recipe. His fingers lightly swipe my arm when we add baking soda. My hip pushes against his when I add in some vanilla. Somehow, I wind up in front of him with his arms around mine when it’s time to pour the brittle into the pan. When my back brushes up against his chest, I get a zing right through my body.
While it cools, we take Lady Featherington outside and play fetch with her in the alley.
“Do you get to play a lot with Duke?” I ask as Sebastian throws the ball to her ag
ain.
“That rascal has a ton of energy. He only gets walked three times a day though.”
“She’ll be the same once I get my own place.”
He looks back at the door to my kitchen and grimaces. “I can’t believe you live here.”
“Pathetic?” I ask, not liking how I’ll feel if he agrees.
“Shows gumption. I’d like to see you in a better place though. I know some people in real estate who can help you get a good rental. You can put that three grand to good use.”
“Thanks, but I’ll skip the fee and try looking by owner first. When my loan comes in, I have big plans for the money, and a high rental is not ideal.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear of anything.”
I point a finger. “And no pro bono realtors. I’m onto you, Blake.”
“Damn. That was definitely my plan.”
I roll my eyes, and we go back inside, where I pour him a glass of wine. We spend the next half hour breaking brittle, stretching it thin, while laughing over jokes and tales of our grandmothers who each seem to have had their own unique ways of smothering us. Mine with hugs, pickles, weekly bingo nights, and paintings of clowns—I have seven. His with kisses, walking him to and from school—even in high school—and knitted afghans, of which he has twelve.
I grab takeout from the restaurant next door, and we eat while the brittle cools. I open another bottle of wine, and we talk about our favorite things to do in the city. I share my fascination with the rowing clubs along Schuylkill River. I can watch the crews come out of Boathouse Row and lose a whole afternoon, enjoying them go up and down the river.
Sebastian listens with keen interest to every word I say. I do the same as he talks about his role as Fiyero in a local production of Wicked.
“I’m amazed you find the time to do community theater,” I say in surprise.
“Told you, I love to act.”
“I thought that was the high school dream. Where do you perform?”
“At a playhouse in my neighborhood. The plays are in the fall. I’d love for you to come. They’re doing Moulin Rouge: The Musical. It should be interesting.”
“That’s six months away. So sure we’ll still know each other?”
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