She hadn’t known that existed until Malcom had come along. She didn’t know kind people. She didn’t know what to do with them. She found herself smiling as she fixed breakfast, every now and then sneaking a peek at Ridley’s very nice behind encased in snug-fitting blue jeans.

Ridley worked hard and fast, meticulously though, adjusting each camera exactly the way he wanted it, so that every single corner of the warehouse was exposed with the exception of her bedroom and the bathroom. He didn’t talk anymore, leaving her free to concentrate on her cooking. She loved cooking.

That had been one of the few things she’d been allowed to do and she’d poured herself into learning. She’d excelled to the point that eventually Rafe preferred her meals to the ones his chef fixed. He hadn’t ever told her that, but he had fired the chef and one of his men came to her every morning and asked for a list of things she wanted from the grocery store.

She had used the money she saved on a security system to buy a very nice espresso machine yesterday, one of the better ones she could work with to make Ridley his favorite drink. Right now, she wanted espresso with the beignets she’d made to go along with their breakfast.

“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.