By admin Fake Dating My Ex’s Favourite Hockey Player Novel CH 136
TESSA
I don’t bother putting two and two together. He’s friends with Cam, the blabbermouth, and Liam, whose girlfriend has recently turned into a blabbermouth herself. Apparently, even my crimes against cuisine are public knowledge now.
Emilia Janice Carter, you better sleep with one eye open. I will have my revenge.
“Great. I’ll whip something up,” I say, pushing off the couch with far more confidence than I actually own.
Aaron trails me into the kitchen, and I can feel him watching me like he’s waiting to witness a disaster unfold in real time. When I grab a pan, he settles against the counter, arms folded, all broad shoulders and unfairly good jawline.
“You don’t cook,” he says, so calm it almost sounds like a fact carved into law.
Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, sir. Really warms the heart.
“I can cook,” I shoot back, chin lifted. “I just… don’t cook well.”
That’s one way to put it,” he mutters, quiet, but not nearly quiet enough.
I whip around with a wooden spoon like I’m brandishing a sword. “Hey! You haven’t even tried my cooking.”
We
His eyes flick to the spoon, then rise slowly to my face. He doesn’t even crack a smile. His voice is low, steady, teasing in the subtlest way. “I’ve heard about Emilia’s taste–testing. That s
says enough.”
So it was Liam. Of course.
“You’re supposed to encourage me,” I huff, tossing the spoon onto the counter with dramatic flair. “Not what’s the word? me?”
–
sabotage
Something flickers in his gaze something warm and faintly amused”
| — but his tone stays even. “I’m not sabotaging. I’m saving myself.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“From food poisoning.”
I gasp, scandalized, hand flying to my chest. “Did THE Aaron Cobalt just make a joke?”
His ears pink immediately, which only makes my grin widen. He tries to hold his ground, leaning back against the counter like he’s unaffected, but his mouth twitches at the corner.
“I’m serious,” he says. “If you cook, I’m helping.”
“You don’t trust me alone in the kitchen?” I ask, stepping closer, toeing into his space just enough to make his jaw tighten.
“I don’t,” he says simply, his gaze dipping to mine, steady and warm, like the words mean far more than food falter a bit.
“You might be a worse cook than I am.”
“Not possible.”
I actually agree with him. I start rattling through cabinets like a contestant on a cooking show who’s already lost, “Okay. I’ve got pasta. I think. And maybe chicken? Or possibly tofu. Could be either.”
Aaron slides in beside me, opens the fridge, and within two seconds has located everything I was pretending didn’t exist. “Chicken,” he says simply, setting it on the counter with military precision. Then pasta. Then spices I don’t even remember buying.
“Show–off,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
The kitchen’s small, barely enough room for two people, but Aaron still insists on wedging himself right behind me at the counter, reaching past with maddening calm to take over the onions I’ve been butchering. His arm brushes mine, steady and precise, like he doesn’t notice what he’s doing to me. But I know he does. His ears are pink again.
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His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that should probably be illegal. He moves with this quiet, unhurried confidence, like the kitchen was always meant for him, like he’s always belonged here. It’s… distracting. And unfair. And so stupidly attractive that I forget to breathe for a second.
“I was doing a pretty good job at that,” I protest weakly, reaching for the knife like I’m not dying inside.
He glances at me. Just a glance, and my entire argument dissolves. His expression doesn’t move an inch, but his eyes flick down to the blade in my hand, then back to my face. The look says everything: You? With a knife?
I bristle, heat flooding my cheeks. “I’m not that bad, you know,”
His mouth twitches God help me, that tiny almost–smile should be classified as a weapon. “Mm.” Noncommittal. Teasing in its silence. He slides the cutting board closer to himself, out of my reach, and tilts his chin toward the pan.
Stir.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you bossing me around in my own kitchen?”
He doesn’t answer, just raises an eyebrow, and somehow that’s worse than words.
“Fine.” I snatch the spoon and stir, dramatically overdoing it, swishing the sauce like I’m auditioning for a cooking show. “See? I could’ve handled the chopping. I’m a professional.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Professional disaster.” It’s only been moments and he’s already done chopping the onions. I was close to tears just from being in their general proximity, but apparently nothing fazes Mr. Cold As Ice over here. “You can stop stirring, I’ll take care of it.”
I jab him in the ribs with the handle of the spatula, and he actually–God help me smiles. Just a little curve of his mouth, like I’ve caught him off guard. It makes me want to wreck him.
“You think you’re so much better?” I challenge, reaching for the pan before he can.
He doesn’t let go. His hand closes over mine, firm and warm, holding me there against the handle. My pulse stutters. His gaze drops, not to the pan, but to my fingers trapped under his.
“I don’t think,” he says quietly. “I know.”
Oh, that’s unfair. Completely unfair.
We wrestle half–heartedly for the spatula, which ends with him behind me again, arms bracketing mine like I’m some hopeless apprentice. He guides my wrist, slow and patient, as if he has all the time in the world to teach me how to stir sauce. I’m aware of every point of contact his chest at my back, his breath near my ear.
–
“See?” he murmurs.
I roll my eyes, because otherwise I’ll combust. “Congratulations. I’m stirring.”
“You’re not ruining it. That’s progress.”
I tilt my head back just enough to catch his expression, and the way his mouth twitches at the corner nearly undoes me. There’s a warmth in his eyes that makes my chest tighten. Like he’s not laughing at me, but because of me. For a man who barely talks, he’s saying far too much with those stupid, soft eyes.
When we finally plate the food, it looks…. edible. Almost respectable. I beam with pride, but Aaron studies it with quiet skepticism, as if the meal itself has secrets it’s hiding from him.
We sit at the table, two plates between us. I take the first bite and instantly regret it. My face contorts before I can stop it. “Okay. That’s… not great.”
Aaron forks up a mouthful without hesitation, chews slowly. His expression doesn’t change, but his ears turn pink. “It’s good.”
I drop my fork, horrified. “You liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You can say it’s bad, okay? You won’t hurt my feelings. I’ve been told worse.”
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His gaze meets mine, steady, unshaken. “It’s good.”
I blink at him. My heart does this ridiculous flip, and suddenly I don’t care how disgusting the food is. I lean forward, narrowing my eyes. “You seriously have questionable taste. It’s refreshing to see.”
“Maybe.” His voice is soft, low. “But only when it comes to food.“.
I
open my mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room worth noticing, like I’m the punchline and the poem and the whole damn story.
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We carry the plates to the couch, put on Confidential Family, and settle in close enough that our shoulders brush. The show plays, but I’m barely watching. Aaron keeps eating, unfazed, like the meal is fine, and it’s absurd and kind of unfair how much that makes me want to kiss him.
By the third episode, the wine has me warm and loose, but it’s his nearness that makes me brave. I glance at him, catch him already watching me.
“What?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, just sets his plate down and leans closer. Slow enough that I can stop him, close enough that I feel the hear of his breath.
And maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the way his hand brushes against mine on the couch. Maybe it’s the fact that no one has ever looked at me like this.
But when he finally closes the space, kissing me so roughly, I forget about everything else.
Even the terrible food.
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