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He didn't move right away; he just stared in half concern, half confusion. It wasn't the icy CEO stare that could freeze a boardroom into silence, but a stunned silence that made his broad shoulders still under that perfectly fitted suit.
His tie was loosened, and the top button of his crisp white shirt was undone, revealing a sliver of skin that usually sent my mind into a spin. But tonight, I was the one spinning out of control.
His gaze flicked from my flour dusty apron to me and then to the dining area, where the lopsided candles flickered like they were a bit tipsy. The rich aroma of roast chicken hung between us, mixed with the chaotic sauce that I'd somehow managed to salvage.
I could almost see the questions racing through his mind: Did Theodore actually cook? Why does my disheveled, slightly insane fake ass mate look like he might vibrate right off the floor?
