“Come eat,” she called, without looking up. She was nervous. Really nervous. This was important to her, the one thing besides making coffee she thought she was good at and she wanted Ridley to think she was good at it too.

She didn’t want him to see her nerves. She tried to be casual as if it didn’t matter when she served the Creole red beans under two poached eggs topped with hollandaise sauce. She grilled Andouille sausages and spicy hash browns. The espresso was perfect and the beignets were hot out of the frying oil.

She sat in the chair opposite Ridley’s, so nervous she had to twist her hands together in her lap as he sat down. She watched him though. She couldn’t help it. His eyes moved over the food and came back to her face.

“Kitten.” He breathed his nickname for her.

She had started out hating that name, but now, the way he said it, she loved it.

“You can cook.”

“Well, yes. But you’d better try it. I hope you like spicy.”

He ate several bites of the egg and red beans, his gaze still on her face. “My God, woman, I need to marry you. Who taught you to cook like this? You’re too young to have gone to school for it. Your mom is a cook?”

She closed her eyes and looked down at her hands. It was an innocent question. He liked her food and anyone – anyone – would ask the same question.

“My mother never cooked a day in her life,” she blurted out. Her hand actually went to her mouth, pushed against her lips hard. What was wrong with her? That was definitely letting him in. She’d never once said a word to anyone about her mother. Her mother was off limits. Ridley had cast some terrible spell over her and she didn’t know what she was doing or saying around him half the time.

His gaze turned speculative as if he knew the subject was taboo. “So if not your mother, Cat, who? Where? Because this is superb.”

She shrugged and went with the truth. “I spent a lot of time hanging out in the kitchen and the chef was amazing.” She didn’t care if she was misleading him in a small way, making him think she’d had a chef growing up because her mother didn’t cook. “I was fascinated and watched everything he did and how he did it. Eventually he allowed me to help and then sometimes cook the meal. I loved it.”

She pushed the heavy fall of hair from around her face, shoving it back over her shoulder. Heat flared in his eyes, turning them to a molten gold so bright she had to look away again. She managed to pick up her espresso without her hands shaking. She was shaking inside, so that was a particularly good feat.

“You constantly amaze me. I’ve never had a better meal, or better coffee. Looking like you do, I’d think you’d just sit back and let everyone admire you, but no, you work out in the dojo and you’re not there to pick up men.”

She smiled at him. “Newsflash, Ridley, the women at the dojo are there to learn how to defend themselves, not pick up men.”

“Newsflash right back at you, Kitten, most of them are there to pick up men. Have you watched them working out? Malcom has to tell them the same thing over and over. They don’t condition. They don’t practice, they just try to look good and bat their eyelashes. Most of them have all requested private lessons with me.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Here’s another newsflash for you, Ridley. Anyone with eyes can see you’re good at self-defense, the katas and the sparring. So anyone who wants to seriously improve is going to try to score private lessons with you.”

“You didn’t.”

That brought her head up. Her eyes met his and that was a terrible mistake. A really, really bad mistake. Heat moved through her. Not moved. Rushed like a fireball right through her veins and settled low in her body, until her feminine core pulsed with need. She let her breath out and took another sip of espresso.

“I don’t let people into my life. Especially not a man the rest of the world is going to notice.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

She settled back in her chair, frowning at him, lifting her fork to gesture toward him. “Ridley, come on, you’re gorgeous. You’re the kind of man other men step aside for. Women can’t take their eyes off of you. You have scars and tats and you move like sheer poetry. Everyone looks when you walk into a room. You have presence. I can’t be walking around with that. So I’m not going to ask for private lessons even if you’re the best there is. Besides” – she smirked at him – “I can’t afford you.”

Ridley took another bite of the poached eggs covered in hollandaise sauce. She was killing him. She gave him compliments a woman should never give to a man without knowing if he was hers and she did it matter-of-factly, no flirting. She didn’t think she was complimenting him, just stating a fact. All the while she did it, her unruly hair tumbled in sheets of waves like a waterfall. Her face was animated, her amazing cobalt blue eyes, so dark they were brilliant, seemed to hold the key to paradise. A man would want to look into her eyes, watch them change, haze over while he buried himself hard and deep inside of her.

She was sexy without trying. Innocent without knowing she was. Lethal as hell to any man with eyes in his head. And scared out of her mind. Still, he was sitting across from her at her breakfast table, eating the most amazing breakfast of his life, and he was finding his way in. Slowly. Carefully. Feeling his way.

“You don’t need money to get private lessons, Kitten. Your food will always be enough for a fair exchange. Half the time I eat at a diner or out of a box. I’m no cook.”