Page 57 of Stranger to Love

She set the knife down with a soft thunk and pushed the chopped pepper into a stainless steel bowl with the side of her hand. Then she turned fully to face me, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms over the fitted charcoal sweater.

“The University pays me a handsome salary, Alex. But the property investments and consulting firm ensure a certain level of comfort,” she explained, her voice dry, like she was reading a financial statement. “Clive manages the logistics for some of the construction projects.”

A consulting firm and property investments. Of course. She was not just a lecturer; she was a high-powered executive playing professor. It explained the house, the clothes, the aura of ruthless control—all of it.

“So you’re terrifying and rich,” I mused, smirking. “Got it.”

She pushed off the counter and picked up the knife again, but instead of returning to the vegetables, she walked toward me. My breath caught in my throat. She stopped right in front of the island, putting her face close to mine—close enough that I could smell the faint, expensive scent of the wine on her breath over the cooking herbs. The sharp steel knife was still in her hand, resting on the countertop just next to my hip.

“I only invest in things that are worth my time, Alex,” she murmured, her eyes locking onto mine, dark and intense. “And when I invest, I ensure I have complete control over the outcome.”

My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was rattling the surface of the island. The threat was palpable, but the proximity, the low sound of her voice, made my skin prickle with dangerous heat. I wanted to pull her closer, but the knowledge that she had a knife and a look in her eye that could freeze a river kept me glued to the stool.

I forced a shaky smile. “Is that why you paid me to stay? To control the outcome of my concussion?”

The corner of her mouth barely twitched. She withdrew the knife, smoothly returning to the cutting board, the moment snapping like a taut wire.

“Naturally,” she said, the business tone back. “Now, just sit there and look pretty instead of distracting me as I make dinner.”

I just couldn’t help myself, especially not when she fucking talked to me like that. “I don’t think I've been called pretty before. Handsome, sexy, or hot, but never pretty.” I smirked, leaning on the palms of my hands all too sweetly.

She stopped chopping again, slowly placing the knife down with unnerving care. She turned back to me, leaning her hands flat on the stainless steel counter, framing her body, and she looked directly into my eyes, that subtle smirk playing on her lips.

“I’m sure there are many things you haven’t been called, Alex,” she said, her voice a low, slow drawl that sent a fresh wave of heat through my stomach. “But perhaps you should start paying closer attention to the words I choose.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to my mouth, then flicked back up, dark and heavy. The air was thick, heavier than the summer heat, and I could barely fucking breathe.

I tried to hold her gaze, but the intensity was too much. I cleared my throat, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. “I’m paying attention.”

She held the moment for another agonising, eternal second, then pushed off the counter and returned to the cutting board, picking up the knife with the same unnerving precision like she really was some fucking mafia boss. She resumed chopping, as if she hadn't just implied something dangerously intimate.

“Good,” she murmured, the sound of the knife against the wood the only other noise in the large kitchen. “Because you’re here until tomorrow morning, and I expect you to behave accordingly. Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

She didn’t look at me again. Preparing dinner like a domestic goddess in a—what I could only assume—designer suit, leaving me a flustered, blushing fucking mess on her barstool.

I stared at the back of her head, the elegant curve of her neck, the silence amplifying the frantic rhythm of my own heart. I had no idea what she meant by 'behave accordingly,' but the phrase sounded less like a rule and more like a warning shot.

I finally managed to pull myself together enough to speak, choosing my words carefully this time.

“So, what are we having, Dr. Carter? Just so I know what I'm behaving for.”

She didn’t stop chopping, but I could see the slight, almost imperceptible tilt of her head. She found me funny. Good. I could work with that.

“Seared salmon, rice pilaff, and asparagus. And Alex,” she said, her voice dry. “Do try to keep your hands to yourself while you wait.”

Oh, what the fuck did that mean. Fuck. No, please tell me she was just teasing and that she hadn’t fucking heard me. What did I say to that? I didn’t have time to respond before she looked over her shoulder, and the smirk on her face said it all.

Fuck my life.

“Wouldn’t want to cause any unnecessary distractions,” I replied smoothly, lifting one shoulder in an innocent, shameless shrug. I forcibly made my voice light, playing off the comment as if she meant me touching the cutlery or something mundane. I was not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me completely unravel over the possibility she had heard me.

To my surprise, Dr. Carter didn’t openly say anything further. She just gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head, the corner of her mouth twitching again before she returned to her cutting board. Maybe it was just a throwaway comment—a general warning about touching things in her perfect kitchen, or maybe she had been just teasing me about holding her hip earlier. I clung to that thought like a fucking lifeline.

She made dinner with ease, her movements economical and practiced. The efficiency she displayed on the phone was mirrored in her cooking—no wasted motion, just precision. I watched her every moment, trying to absorb the sheer control this woman exuded.

Within fifteen minutes, as promised, she served. The plates were beautiful, the seared salmon golden brown, resting next to a neat mound of fluffy pilaff and perfectly steamed asparagus. It looked like it belonged on a magazine cover.

We settled down to dinner at the dining table, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken tension. We ate in mostly silence, punctuated only by the soft clink of silverware.