Turning to Stone (Heart of Stone: Book 2)

Chapter 4: Senses

Chapter 4: Senses

To keep our plan under wraps, Ed and I arranged to meet in his suite on Wednesday evening. He'd texted to say he was running late, so I attempted to rustle up some food while I waited, pleased to see that his basic kitchen supplies were very much in line with my basic cooking skills.

I'd never progressed beyond the simple meals I'd cooked at university. When Becca, Gabby and I lived together, Becca did most of the cooking—she loved it and often banned Gabby and me from helping for fear that we'd ruin the dish.

Then, I'd moved in with Mum and Steve, and fresh from the trauma of losing two close friends, I was not in the mood to take up a new hobby. Mum spoilt me with her feasts, and I didn't complain.

My room at the hotel had a kitchen, but with a healthy salary and minimal expenses, I'd fallen into the lazy habit of eating at the downstairs restaurant, ordering a takeaway, or taking a small walk through the block to dine out.

However, despite my lack of culinary prowess, even I couldn't fuck up pasta. Combining penne with a sauce was a recipe I'd mastered during university.

As I got to work, I hummed along to a playlist of the week's hottest hits. When an older track of Ed's—currently enjoying a fresh surge of popularity after featuring in an advert—began to play, I groaned. I'd become familiar with most of his songs, but I still couldn't consider myself a fan by any stretch of the imagination. Not when it came to his music, anyway.

"Alexa, skip this song," I called out, scooping up a piece of penne to test how much longer it needed.

Jason Derulo began to drift from the speaker instead as I nibbled on the pasta. Satisfied it was soft enough, I drained it into a colander and tipped the jar of sauce into the pan.

"Should I take offence?"

I startled and spun around to see Ed hooking his jacket over the back of the sofa.

"That I'm cooking you dinner?" I asked, pretending not to understand. "No, you should be fucking grateful."

A black t-shirt clung to his lean torso, so tight that I could see the ridges of muscle beneath the fabric. My mouth watered—and not because of the pasta.

The edge of his mouth curled upwards as he strolled towards me. "Smells good. Thank you, honey."

And he pressed his lips to my cheek.

Scowling, I planted my palm against his hard chest—shamelessly strategic—and shoved him off. Just that brief second of contact had me ravenous for more, and I turned back to the decidedly less-appetising meal on the hob.

"Not my favourite song of yours," I said.

"Like you even have a favourite," he said, dry amusement wrapped around his words.

"Well, there is one song of yours I like."

"Just one? Wow. Thank goodness the rest of the world feels differently."

"Hm. The rest of the world has poor taste."

I stirred the sauce and tried to ignore his piercing gaze as he watched me. Even with my back to him, I could feel the heat of his eyes sweeping over my body, searching for something to comment on. So I beat him to it, desperate to retain the upper hand.

"Derulo on the other hand..." I said, glancing at him over my shoulder and smiling when he cocked an intrigued eyebrow at me. "I could watch him all day."

"I think you mean listen."

"Nope. I mean watch. Why only listen when I can get a full sensory experience?"