Page 20 of Jacob Michaels Is Not Jacob Michaels

Lucas’ house smelled heavenly when I walked inside without even knocking at dinner time. If I hadn’t known better, I would have expected that he was making us a Sunday roast for dinner. Rosemary, and potatoes, and meaty, juicy flavors permeated the air. My boyfriend smiled at me from the kitchen as I closed the front door behind myself and tossed my coat on one of the hooks by the door. “Hey, babe!” he shouted as he smiled widely and I wiped my feet on the rug just inside the door.

The house Lucas was building just felt like Lucas. Lots of wood, rustic, rough corners, simple yet elegant in a masculine way. Utilitarian but not in a sterile or nondescript way. It was merely the house of an outdoorsy guy who also was more concerned with function than style. When he wasn’t cooking it smelled like all of the types of wood he had used to construct the house and…Lucas. I loved the smell of Lucas. He smelled like the wild yet clean, masculine yet fresh, exciting yet peaceful. Whenever I smelled him, it was like my brain had been fried and I couldn’t make a rational decision. All of my neurons were firing wildly at all times, and I could only focus on him, not what was next or next after that. That was Lucas’ house. It was a place where thinking was not required. Existing was all one had to do.

Within the walls of Lucas’ house, I felt that I could slide up to the kitchen bar in front of him, sit down on one of the stools, watch him cook, and I had nothing else with which to concern myself. I could just be Rob Wagner, and nothing else mattered. Besides the fact that Lucas was so easy to like, that was my favorite thing about him. I didn’t have to be anyone but me. In fact, without so much as saying it, Lucas demanded that I just be Rob. He didn’t want Jacob Michaels or Robbie or Robert. He wanted Rob.

“It smells…good in here,” I said as I walked into the kitchen area.

“You sound surprised.” Lucas grinned at me as he wiped his hands on a hand towel he had tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

Jeans that fit him perfectly. Lucas wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was all just too distracting. As I sat down on the barstool, trying to control myself, he reached across the counter, took my shirt in his hands and pulled me forward. I met his lips with mine, more than happy to kiss him. Having Lucas’ lips against mine was something that always made me feel safe. Of course, that thought made me feel anything but safe.

“You taste better than the food will, I’m afraid.” He whispered against my mouth as he pulled back just enough so that he could speak.

“I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” I replied throatily.

“I could be a world-renowned chef and still not be able to cook something that tastes as delicious as you.”

“Are you trying to get an appetizer?” I teased, my lips brushing against his.

“Are you offering?”

“How important is it for you to keep an eye on the food without burning it?”

Lucas deflated with a grin. “Kind of important.”

I pulled away and sat on the barstool.

“I guess you’ll have to settle for dessert.” I grinned evilly at him.

“I hope you can eat quick.”

“Don’t I always?” I asked.

“Okay, okay.” He waved his hands between us. “Don’t distract the chef!”

“You started it.” I teased.

Lucas winked at me as he checked pots on the stovetop and glanced through the window of the oven. Next, he produced a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured us both half-glasses, setting one carefully in front of me as he took a sip of his own. Picking up the glass by the stem, I looked over at my boyfriend, wondering what it was about Lucas that made me want to throw caution to the wind. What made me want to turn all of the burners off, flip the oven off, then bend him over the counter and—

“You look distracted.”

“Do I?” I sipped my wine.

“A little bit.” Lucas bit his lower lip, trying to hide his smile. “Do I need to put my shirt on?”

“Do you ever?”

“You tell me.”

“You could stay naked all of the time, and it wouldn’t bother me,” I replied. “At least…not in a bad way.”

“Well,” Lucas set his wine glass on the counter and reached for the button of his jeans, “I could always—”

“Do you think there’s value in talking to Andrew about the werewolves from last night?”

Lucas’ fingers froze as the button popped out of place and he looked at me sternly from across the kitchen counter. I chewed at my lip, chastened without having Lucas say a word, as I grabbed my wine glass and took another quick sip. Lucas’ hands slid away from the waist of his jeans to rest at his sides as he considered me from the other side of the kitchen counter.

“Really?”