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In fact, he’d done it just a few hours ago when I came back into the bedroom fully dressed and with my hair secured in a bun (because, hello, forthcoming cooking competition), and he’d paired it with muttering about my choices in hairstyles.

Hockey players. I swear.

Does he want a stray hair in his pot pie?

“Nothing about a Bugatti is understated,” he grits out. “Now quit running your mouth for once. I want to win this shit, if only because it’ll shut Mom and Dad up.”

“Truth,” Noble says, glaring at his parents, who are still getting louder.

“And also, bullshit,” I say as I snag the knife back, start slicing up the chicken. “You want to win because you’re both Ambroses and nothing more.”

Noble winks at me.

Ace leans in and I see he’s smiling before his lips hit my ear. “Careful, princess. Every time you show me that fire of yours, my dick gets hard.”

My heart skips a beat and the game face I’d slapped on that morning in the shower, the icy armor that still feels dangerously thin ripples, cracks forming on the surface. I dig in, fix it in place, and roll my eyes at him.

“Fuck, I want to kiss you again,” he says, the words puffing against the hinge of my jaw.

I inhale.

He nips and I shiver, air rushing shakily out of my lungs. “Would you be pissed if I mess up that dumb bun of yours?”

“Do it at your own risk,” I threaten, pointing the knife at him.

He just smiles and goes back to chopping.

“Fuck,” Noble says. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

I blink in confusion, looking around, wondering if hot oil is being thrown or someone has taken my cue with knife-pointing but escalated it to knife-stabbing.

But everyone’s focused on their own stations.

“I know,” Ace replies, his brown eyes dancing.

I glance back and forth between them, my confusion not abating. “What?”

Noble grins. “I never thought I’d see the day we’d have a woman in this family who could handle one of us.”

My mouth falls open.

“I’m still going to kiss her.” Ace shrugs. “I’m just going to wait until she puts the knife down.”

I slam it onto my cutting board—my first mistake—and turn to glare at him—my second.

Because the moment the knife is out of my hand, Ace is closing the distance between us, so when I turn to him, my front is facing his front.

Which means I’m plastered against him.

And he takes full advantage, dropping his head, slanting his lips over mine, and then…

I’m not thinking about knives or slimy chicken. Not thinking about keeping my game face intact or the words he gave me this morning that mean more than perhaps anything anyone’s ever said to me.

Even Tanya.

I’m not thinking about anything except how good it feels to be in his arms, held close as he kisses me deeply, intensely, using his tongue to demonstrate how very skilled that part of his anatomy is.

“Get a room!” Beck shouts.