He didn’t need to fake the smile that curved his lips when he pushed open the door to the Cadogan House kitchen and saw her.
Margot wore a crisp white apron over a red top with the sleeves rolled up, fitted black pants that ended at the ankle, and shoes in the same red as her shirt. She stood in front of an island topped by pale marble, rolling out an enormous rectangle of dough, and looking like the heroine from one of her movies.
“Can you hand me the cinnamon?” she asked, without looking up. “My hands are covered in flour.”
Jonah glanced around, saw the container on the counter, picked it up, and offered it to her.
“Thanks,” she said with an unguarded smile, fingers brushing as he handed over the bottle. And he watched her stiffen as she realized who’d made the hand-off.
“Oh, sorry!” she said with a grin. “I thought you were Joe. I didn’t mean to order you around.”
“No problem,” he said with a grin. “I was just here to talk about the deal with the mayor, thought I’d say hi. So, hi.”
He knew he sounded awkward, but that awkwardness—and what he was sure was a goofy-ass expression on his face—made a corner of her mouth lift, so it was worth it.
“Hey,” she said. “How’s Merit?”
“Fine, I think. Shaken up. I was going to check again before I headed out.”
Margot measured cinnamon for the batter, then turned the measuring spoon to drop it in. “I think she’s upstairs with Mallory.” She screwed the lid back on the cinnamon, looked up at Jonah.
“Was it really an attempted kidnapping? I was prepping for the predawn meal and only got third-party info.”
“I didn’t get there until after the perp left, but that’s what she said, yeah.”
“That’s crazy,” she said, and returned to her stirring.
“What are you making?”
“Chocolate pound cake. It’s fantastic with Chantilly cream.”
“I bet,” he said. Just watching her stir a goddamn bowl of chocolate had sent a spike of lust through his gut so fierce he had to clench his hands to keep from reaching out and touching her.
She nodded at a container on the far counter. “Go try one of those.”
“What are they?” Jonah asked, but he was already moving toward them. When it came to food, he trusted her implicitly.
“Profiteroles. Pate à choux stuffed with pastry cream.”
“Pate à choux,” he repeated. “That’s the one you make on the stove, right?”
Margot grinned, and his heart pistoned in response. “You were paying attention.”
Of course he’d been paying attention. Beyond the fact that it was interesting—he honestly hadn’t known how much there was to learn about baking until he’d met Margot—he loved watching her eyes light with joy when she talked about ingredients or chemistry.
Jonah lifted the lid, found two dozen golden domes resting inside. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Have one,” Margot said, cracking an egg into the mixing bowl. “And bring me one, too.”
He had no choice but to obey. He plucked up two pastries, found they were heavier than they looked. “How much cream is in here?” he asked with a smile, carrying them back.
“Hit the gym tonight,” she advised, and held out her free hand. He dropped one into it, and they bit in simultaneously, and even that small act was sensual.
The taste, he thought, was worth the longing. The pastry had just enough bite, and the cream was laced with vanilla. Together, they were powerful.
“Fantastic,” he said.
She nodded, still chewing. “Recipe came from an antique French cookbook Ethan brought back from Paris. They’re pretty amazing.”
“No argument.”
She finished her bite, then cracked another egg into the bowl. He watched the play of her slender fingers, the way she bit the edge of her lip when she was concentrating. And while he could have stood there for hours, they both had work to get back to.
“Well, I just wanted to say hi,” he said. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Sure,” she said, and he could see the battle in her eyes. The war he’d have helped her wage if she’d let him. “Have a good night.”
He nodded and started for the door.
“Jonah.”
Hope rose, heat flaring when he turned around again. He saw sadness in her eyes, an apology he didn’t want or need. But he’d have sworn there was something beneath it. Want, if he was going to put a name to it.
“Thanks for helping Merit.”
“You’re welcome.” He gave her a nod, disappeared into the hallway, and decided he’d happily take her thanks any way he could get it.
He was gorgeous. Undeniably. Tall and lean and built, with a face that was almost obscenely perfect. Square jaw, straight nose, almond-shaped blue eyes topped by long brows the same auburn of his shoulder-skimming hair. His mouth—she couldn’t stop staring at his damn mouth—looked like it had been designed just to tempt a woman with fantasies about where and how he could use it.
She’d spent more than one day in sweaty dreams about that.
And he was kind. Funny. Loyal. So dedicated to his House it made her toes curl—even if that House wasn’t Cadogan.
But she’d fallen for the pretty boy before, a vampire named Rowan Cleary, who had a beautiful face and a body to die for and who’d wined and dined her . . . until he hadn’t anymore. Until his jokes changed from sarcastic to mean, his compliments to criticisms.
They’d dated for ten months. And then, one very snowy night in February, after they’d been stuck in traffic on the Dan Ryan for an hour, he’d slapped her.
It was fast—so quick she’d almost convinced herself that it hadn’t happened, that she’d imagined it. Then had come the excuses, from him and from her. He’d been stressed and tired, and she hadn’t helped by nagging him to drive more carefully.
The realization came last—that plenty of couples were stressed and tired and naggy. And they didn’t get violent.
She’d let the criticism go on for too long, even though she’d done some counseling as a human. It had taken three weeks after he’d hit her—after the apologies and excuses and promises to never do it again—before she acknowledged what was happening. She knew that he would absolutely do it again, because that’s who he was. And next time, it wouldn’t just be a quick slap.
So she’d gathered her friends and her resources, and she’d moved out of his place and back into Cadogan House.
That had been more than two years ago, and she’d been working on herself in the meantime. Seeing her own therapist helped, as did knowing she had the support of her House. And when Merit tried to set her up with Jonah, she was certain she was ready to give it a try.
Margot knew Jonah was a good guy. But as she began spending time with him, and her long-buried emotions began to stir that old, familiar anxiety and she’d stepped back. She realized she still wasn’t ready for a relationship, especially not to take a chance on someone she was pretty sure she could fall for.
If she and Rowan had stayed together, tonight would have been their anniversary. Maybe that’s why she was feeling bluesy this evening, because this was a milestone. A marker in a relationship that had ended, even if ending it had been the right thing to do.
She wasn’t ready to be vulnerable again. So she focused on her work, just like always. She added a pile of roughly chopped chocolate to the batter, folded it in, and poured the mix into the loaf pan she’d already buttered and floured. Then she put the pan in the oven, where time and heat and chemistry would work their magic, turn liquid to solid, intensify flavor.
“Time and heat and chemistry,” she muttered, irritated with herself and tired of the struggle. “I’ve got those boxes checked.”
Her phone rang. She reached into her pocket, answered it automatically. “Hello?”
“Hey, pretty girl.”
Three words, softly spoken, and yet enough to make her stomach ice over. She fought back panic that tightened her throat, made herself speak.
“Rowan.” She swallowed hard. “What do you want?” Not that she actually cared what he wanted, but she’d already answered the phone. He’d see hanging up as a challenge for him to overcome.