Must Date The Chef

|| 51.

"You wish," he replies, "you are stuck with me." I giggle, his words warm me over more than I think possible. His brows furrow, a corner of his lips twitches. "But I don't know yet," I nod and smoothen the lines on his forehead, "I don't think I am ready to have a business of my own. What do you suggest?"

In the past, I might have advised or pushed him to risk it all, to give it a try but Paul is one of the few people I know who believe their skills are to be shared with the world for free, no monetisation. I can never share in his sentiment but I respect his stand on the matter. He squeezes my butt, my eyes return to his face, his lips and I swallow.

"Why do you think you are not ready?" His lower lip sticks out, I pull it between my teeth. "I know you will make a good boss. You are already a great chef, the best."

Lowering my eyes to the hairs scattered across his chest in a scanty pattern, I pull out a few strands and he frowns. I pout. "I don't want to be a boss, I just want to cook."

His hand slips into my short, my teeth sink into my lips as he massages my naked butt and I forget the epistle I prepared to give him. Tracing the corner of my eyes, his thumb brushes the sunken surface and his palms on my cheeks stops me from looking away. With makeup on, it's easier to hide the bags and dark circles from lack of sleep.

He arches an eyebrow, I remove his hands from my face. "Have you been sleeping?"

I return to my former position beside him, my head connects with the pillow. "Barely."

"Why?"

My chest falls, I eye the ceiling like it holds something of interest. "You were not here."

Seconds pass before his reply, I feel his eyes on me but my gaze remains on the ceiling, he was not here when the faces jumped out or the voices whispered. But he is here now, I slept the best I have since we separated.

"I'm sorry."

Flashing him a smile, I reply, "It's not your fault." My gaze wanders to the door where those pair of evil eyes usually lurk. Nothing. His presence must have scared them off.

"I believe you are ready to own a business, you are just scared of failing," he sighs, "you don't want to disappoint your father."

"Maybe," he mutters. "I know it's not the case but sometimes I feel like he expects me to fail so he can remind me how much it was a bad idea for me to become a chef." He lets out a mirthless chuckle, I squeeze his hand to lend him comfort and wait for him to continue. "Cooking makes me happy."

The last part is spoken in a whisper as if he is ashamed to talk about it and I tickle him until he lets out a genuine laugh. "I know it does and I love watching my baby cook."

"Yeah?" I nod, one of the perks of dating a chef is experiencing the firsthand magic. "It just feels like the right thing for me to do."

"Because it is the right thing to do," I cup his face and litter kisses all over his forehead, "you were born to cook." Staring him in the eyes, I continue, "I believe in you, babe. I am always here for you and whatever you decide to do, you will have my full support."

"Even if it's to rob a bank?" I hit his arm and he lets out an exaggerated cry, I chuckle, he frowns. He will be alone on anything illegal.

One glance at the wall clock shows I have enough time until my alarm rings, I sigh, he bops my nose and I offer him a small smile. Telling him about my travel shouldn't be this difficult but it is, I feel bad for waiting this long. I will miss him and his cooking.

"You still can't sleep without the lights on?" Paul asks after a brief moment of silence. I nod, they offer a sense of protection. My eyes lower to his arm which returns to my stomach, I place my palm over it. "Don't you think it's time for you to talk to someone?"