Hollywood Prince (Hollywood Royalty #3) - Natasha Madison Page 0,14

lunchtime.

“I need to eat since I have a photo shoot in two hours,” I tell her. “Why don’t you come inside, and you can sit at the counter and talk to me while I make us some lunch?”

“You are going to cook for me?” she asks in shock. “Like food, food or . . .?”

“I can cook,” I tell her, pushing away from the table and walking inside. She grabs her stuff and comes into the kitchen with me. Pulling out a chair, she sits as I open the fridge and grab a water bottle to hand to her. “You haven’t hydrated in at least two hours, so drink that,” I tell her, and she grabs the bottle and finishes half. “Why didn’t you ask me for water if you were thirsty?” I ask her, grabbing a red pepper, an onion, and a green pepper. I walk to the counter in front of her and set the ingredients down, then grab a cutting board and a knife. She doesn’t answer, and instead, she is straight back to business.

“How many times a week do you cook for yourself?” she asks me and grabs her phone and snaps a picture. “That is going to be your first ‘I’m a good boy on my best behavior’ Instagram picture.”

“You can even use that as a caption.” I wink at her, and she rolls her eyes at me. I begin to slice the vegetables. “I cook whenever I have a chance.”

“How did you learn to cook?” she asks me as I grab the chicken breast from the fridge. I drizzle some olive oil in the pan and sauté the veggies, turning to her.

“Is this an interview?” I joke with her, slicing the chicken into strips.

“No, but it’s good for me to know, so I can spin this into a positive thing.”

“My parents were really never parents, so I had to fend for myself,” I say, and I want to take it back. The last thing I want is to open that side of me up to her scrutiny. “They worked long hours.” I toss the chicken in with the veggies. “Are you a vegetarian?” I look in the pan and stir it with a wooden spoon. “I guess I should have asked before.” I look over my shoulder at her, and she snaps another picture.

“Nope, I eat everything,” she tells me, and I wait until the veggies and the chicken are done before I throw some salsa into the pan. After grabbing some tortillas and two plates, I place one plate in front of Erin on the counter and another next to her. I walk back to the fridge and grab some fresh guacamole and some pico de gallo.

“It smells so good,” she says, and I look over my shoulder at her and take in the moment right there. She is the first woman to step inside my new house, apart from my house cleaner. She’s the first woman I have cooked for in my house that is my haven.

I take the pan and put the food in a big dish, then bring it over to the counter. Sitting down, I place it in the middle of us. “This is my version of chicken fajitas,” I tell her and get up.

“Where are the utensils?” she asks, and I look at her as she casually walks in the back to grab them. I point at the drawer, and she comes back with four spoons and two forks. “Do you think I can have another water bottle?” she asks me, and I fumble with my words. “I can get it. Please, you did do all the cooking.” She walks over to the fridge and grabs two water bottles and then comes back.

I wait for her to serve herself, and then I go on the attack. She moans when she takes a bite and then looks at me. “This is so good.”

“This is the first time a woman has moaned in my house, and it had nothing to do with my Big Johnson.” I wink at her, and she throws her head back and laughs.

“Liar.” She shakes her head and takes another bite.

“Nope,” I say to her, grabbing another bite. “I never, ever bring anyone here. My last house, yes, but this is my space and mine only.”

“Oh, I get it,” she says. “The whole smash and go.”

“Smash and go?” I ask, confused.

“You have sex with them at their house or a hotel, so they don’t linger?” she