Page 36 of Pucking Forbidden

“Julian, this is incredible,” I murmur, offering him a grateful smile. “Thank you. Truly. You really didn't have to do all of this for me.”

A faint, almost imperceptible softening touches the corners of his mouth. “Eat more. There’s plenty.”

I pause, looking up at him. “Aren't you going to join me?”

He shrugs his massive shoulders, looking completely unaffected by the invitation. His eyes linger on mine a second longer. “I ate a couple of strips of bacon while it was sizzling. I’m good.”

I find that hard to believe for a guy his size.

“Where did you learn how to cook like this?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Mrs. Clay.”

The easy, lazy smirk disappears entirely, replaced by a momentary tightness around his jaw and a distant, guarded look in his dark eyes. I can feel the invisible boundary line he just drew between us, and because I know how fiercely Julian protects his walls, I don’t press.

Instead, I smile and redirect the conversation away from him. “My Grandma Sullivan taught me to cook,” I share, hoping opening up to him more will help him one day open up to me as well.

He shoots me another look. “That must have been nice.”

“It was,” I continue, setting my fork down on the edge of the plate as a warm, bittersweet wave of nostalgia washes over me. “When I was little, her kitchen was my favorite place in the whole world. Just the smell of vanilla reminds me of her.”

Julian huffs out a quiet, amused sound. “Yeah, I get that.”

I pick my fork back up, finishing the rest of the plate. He leans his massive frame against the opposite counter, tracking every movement of my fork. His dark eyes watch me eat, and it makes a flush creep right back up my neck, his gaze lingering on my lips every time I take a bite.

The moment I set my fork down on the cleared plate, he springs into action with a smooth, efficient precision that catches me by surprise all over again. He doesn't miss a beat as he begins loading the dishwasher.

“Julian, stop, please,” I say, sliding off the barstool and reaching for the empty glass on the table. “You’ve already done so much. Let me at least do the dishes.”

He doesn't even look up as his large hand intercepts mine, his fingers brushing against my skin and sending a sharp, electric jolt straight up my arm. He takes the glass from my grip, his jaw setting in a firm, unyielding line.

“Sit back down, Hadley,” he rumbles, his tone leaving no room for negotiation as he turns his broad back to me and rinses the glass under the tap. “I didn’t cook you breakfast just to watch you do manual labor while you’re still sporting a hangover. I’ve got it.”

Sensing this is important to him, I hesitate a moment before sitting back down. “Okay.”

“There’s a slight drip in your faucet,” he mutters while finishing what he’s doing. “I’ll fix it later.”

I blink. “You don’t have to…”

“It’s fine,” he insists, turning to face me while leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. “So, what’s your plan now that you’re here?”

The question catches me off guard. I was too busy tracking the ripple of his shoulder blades to think about my future. It feels different hearing him ask it in person. Over text, it was just words. Here, with his intense brown eyes turning to lock onto mine, it feels like a more significant conversation.

“I start at the University of Denver next week,” I reply, my voice steadier than I expected. “The campus is beautiful, but it’s…a lot. Smaller than London, but more focused. My dad already had the transfer credits and the enrollment arranged before I even touched down in Colorado.”

Julian nods, listening.

“I’ve got a commute,” I continue. “It’s not too terrible. Classes are already set, and my schedule’s packed.”

“And your major?” He furrows his brow expectantly.

I hesitate, then shrug. “Same.”

He frowns. “You like it?”

I huff out a breath. “Does that matter?”

“Yeah, it does,” he replies.