Oh hell, he said it in French, with an accent that sounded like sultry sex. My breath hitched. And he noticed. His eyes narrowed, slowly lowering to my mouth, then easing back up to meet my gaze.

“You mad?” A challenge.

“That depends,” I said, way too breathless. Damn it. “Was it a joke to you?”

“Honeybee, I never joke about pâtisseries.”

God. Say it again. Say more. Breathe your words on my skin.

I swallowed hard. “Don’t prevaricate with me, Lucian. Not now.”

With a sigh, his shoulders slumped. “No, it wasn’t a joke. I didn’t say anything because . . .” He waved a hand, as if searching for the reason, then ended up lifting it in resignation. “It felt too personal. Like I was exposing too much of myself.”

“I can see that.” He was an artist. I’d felt his care and thoughtfulness in every bite he’d created. But more than that, it showed in the way his pastries looked, the way he presented them. “You are incredibly gifted, Lucian.”

Faint praise. But I wanted to give it anyway.

As expected, he turned and busied himself by tossing the eggshell into a prep sink. “It’s something I do to relax and keep busy.”

I didn’t want to think of Greg just then, but it wasn’t until I’d started dating him that I got a true taste of a professional athlete’s life. I thought it would be like mine, but acting had lots of periods of waiting around for takes and downtime between roles. Athletes were a different breed. Their lives were extremely structured, filled with days of training, practices, games, interviews, travel. There was little time for rest. Most pro athletes got off on it, the life itself giving them an adrenaline high.

How would it be to have it ripped away before you were ready? Not good.

My heart squeezed, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and just hug. If any man needed a hug, it was Lucian. But he wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t like it.

He shifted his weight, going twitchy in that way of his that meant he was gearing up to be defensive, to close himself off in his own protective world.

You can let me in. I won’t hurt you.

“Did Amalie teach you?” I asked.

His chin snapped up—surprised, I would guess, at my shift away from the obvious subject. “Yes,” he said after a moment, his voice gravelly. He cleared his throat. “Well, Amalie taught me to cook and bread making. You know, the recipes she learned as a child.”

As he spoke, he busied himself by taking out a kitchen scale and flour. There was an ease about him now. “My great-grandfather, Jean Philipe, taught me pâtisserie making. He was a big name in France. His kitchens were filled with veritable armies of assistants, and it was always, ‘Oui, Chef.’ But with me, he was simply arrière-grand-père, who wanted to teach me everything. When we kids summered in France, Anton and Tina would play outside, and I stayed in the kitchen.”

A smile formed on my lips. “I admit I find it hard to picture.”

The corners of his eyes creased in quiet humor. “Mamie wasn’t exaggerating when she said I was small as a kid. Scrawny, really. And shy.”

“You?” I teased. But I could see it. There was something about Lucian that would always be reserved.

He shot me a sidelong look, but his lips curled. “Yeah, me. A scrawny geek. Who wasn’t stupid; if I was in the kitchen, I got fed. A lot. Plus . . .” He shrugged shoulders that were most definitely not scrawny. “I liked it. I always had trouble concentrating unless something took up all my focus. At home, I had the ice. In France, I had cooking, baking, pâtisseries. It relaxes me.”

Personally, the precision and concentration needed to bake would drive me batty. But I understood.

We stood side by side, me far too aware of his warmth. He smelled of honey and sunshine. I wanted to burrow my face in all that goodness and soak it up.

“Will you stop now that I know?” I asked, worried.

His straight brows drew together. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, tracing the edge of the counter. “You said it was too personal, me knowing.” I looked up and met his eyes. “I wondered if maybe you wouldn’t want to make me anything anymore.”

Lucian’s stern expression belied the softness of his tone. “Honeybee, I’ll make you anything you want.”

The promise slid over me like hot caramel. Anything I wanted. I knew he would.

My fingers curled into a fist to keep from reaching out. “Surprise me.”

His smile was wide and brilliant. Free. “You’re on.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Emma

My favorite place on the estate became the kitchen. At least, when Lucian occupied it. Sunny and warm and filled with luscious scents like baking bread or rich chocolate, the space felt both safe and happy. It was a delight to curl up on the deep padded bench that ran along one wall and faced the kitchen island and stove, where Lucian worked.

Over the past few years, I’d been so busy with Dark Castle that I’d never truly gotten into cooking or baking shows. I reconsidered them now. Watching Lucian move about the kitchen, all firm confidence and loose-limbed grace, was pure porn for me. Heaven help me, but the way his ropy forearms moved as he briskly whipped up egg whites or heavy cream—because the man never used a blender for these things—would get me so hot and bothered I’d have to press my thighs together under the cover of the battered farm table.

And when he kneaded dough? Sweet baby Jesus. He did this little grunt every time he thrust the heels of his hands over the springy mass. A deep rumbling grunt as his whole taut body rocked toward the countertop. And then there was the pullback, when he’d breathe in, those wide shoulders of his rolling in a steady rhythm.

Grunt. Thrust. Breathe. Pull.

It was a wonder I didn’t orgasm on the spot watching him.

“I can feel your eyes on me,” Lucian deadpanned, not breaking rhythm.

I bet you can.

“It’s mesmerizing.”

He grunted again, this time one that I knew meant “Whatever floats your boat, Em.”

I smiled. “I could film this and have an instant hit on my hands.”

He glanced my way, all cool wintergreen annoyance—belied by the slight smile trying to pull at his lips. “Ex–hockey players baking?” He turned his attention back to the dough. “I guess there’s a certain spectacle about it.”