Hate the Game by Holly Hall

Author:Holly Hall [Hall, Holly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Ava

The sound of my knock echoed through the empty hallway. Eddie’s warnings aside, living across the hall from Stalker Neighbor Guy was pretty damn convenient.

“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Theo said upon opening the door.

I plucked at the towel hanging over his bare shoulder. “Your towel says ‘professional chef,’ but your bare chest says ‘harassment suit.’”

His eyes narrowed as he caught me around the waist before I could pass him. “You’re hilarious, have I ever told you that?”

“I believe you used ‘ridiculous’ last time.”

“And gorgeous. And stunning.” As if predicting my next move, he grabbed my wrists on their way up to my face. “Don’t cover that smile. I want to know my compliments still have an effect on you.”

“I’m covering my blush because you’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t. I want to see that too.” His expression turned earnest, and he bowed his head to kiss me. Good bye, willpower. I was being swept off my feet already and I’d barely crossed the threshold.

“Is something burning?” I asked against his lips, and when he straightened and sniffed the air, I let out a giggle. “Gotcha.”

“Oh you. Get in here.”

I entered the kitchen, taking in the pans of sauce and sizzling shrimp, and my mouth instantly started watering. Theo adjusted the knobs on the stovetop, tending to the various works in progress. He turned his head and caught me watching him.

“Like what you see?”

“Oh yes. The way this is going, I’ll never have to cook dinner again.”

“Very funny.”

“Although when I set the goal of having a personal chef by age thirty-five, I didn’t think he’d look like you. Much less work in the kitchen half naked.”

“It’s hot and I get a little messy with the red sauce sometimes.” He dipped a pinky in the marinara and slipped it between his lips, and I took about a dozen mental snapshots. Holland would say I was adding material to my spank bank.

“No complaints here,” I said, leaning on the bar with my chin in my hand. “So what are we doing for our next fitness outing? And please don’t say it’s a surprise.”

“Remember when you asked me about Texas? I figured I’d bring a little Texas to Chicago and do something that feels like home.”

“Not riding horses,” I said, monotone. My fear of mysterious lake-creatures might’ve waned, but horses were a giant no.

“I like tiptoeing boundaries, don’t get me wrong, but I figured horses would be going too far after that conversation.”

“You’d be correct.”

“Dancing,” he said, tossing the shrimp in the sauce. “You know how to two-step?”

“Is that what they do in Footloose?”

“Absolutely not.” He shook his head, his laugh low and soft. “At least let me serve you some dinner before I kick you out for that comment.”

“What? It’s a type of western dancing, right?” I giggled. I didn’t know anything about two-stepping or whatever. I was about as far removed from Southern traditions as you could get.

“Anyway,” he emphasized, sliding a plate in front of me on the bar. Linguini with

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