Chapter 94: Taste and Tell

NORA’S POV

The front door of the SinBin clicked shut behind me, cutting off the autumn breeze.

I stood in the grand entryway, clutching my small shoulder bag, and blinked in utter disbelief.

The house was completely silent.

There were no loud bass drops shaking the wall, no smell of stale beer or sweaty gym gear. Instead, the floors were clean, the counters sparkled, and the rich, mouth-watering aroma of sizzling steak, roasted garlic, and melted butter drifted through the air.

"Where are they?" I asked, looking around suspiciously as I unzipped my ankle boots. "Did you lock them in the basement?"

Knox let out a low chuckle, taking my wool coat from my shoulders and hanging it on the wooden rack.

"I sent them to the sports pub downtown," Knox said, turning around with a wicked, amused smirk. "I told Bear if I found a single dirty shaker bottle in this house tonight, I was assigning him to bag skates at five tomorrow morning."

"You threatened your alternate captain with conditioning drills just to clear the house?" I teased, an involuntary smile breaking across my face.

"I’d threaten Coach Brennan himself if it meant getting you alone for dinner, Bennett," Knox murmured, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that sent a delicious shiver straight down my spine.

He reached out, taking my hand in his, and led me into the massive, open-concept kitchen.

A bottle of red wine was already breathing on the marble island beside two tall glasses. Knox picked up the bottle, pouring a generous measure into a glass and sliding it across the counter to me.

"Hop up," Knox instructed, nodding toward the high wooden barstools by the island.

I climbed onto the stool, taking a sip of the smooth, rich wine, resting my elbows on the clean counter as I watched him cook.

Knox Sheridan in a kitchen was a visual hazard.

He had the sleeves of his black henley rolled up past his forearms, revealing the taut cords of muscle and the dark veins tracing down to his large, capable hands. He moved around the stove like an expert, flipping two massive bone-in ribeye steaks in a smoking cast-iron skillet with a pair of stainless steel tongs.

He basted the bubbling steaks with melted butter and fresh sprigs of rosemary, the sizzle filling the quiet kitchen.

"I have to admit, Sheridan," I said, tilting my head with an arched eyebrow, "I fully expected you to order greasy takeout or burn garlic bread to a crisp."

Knox glanced over his shoulder, a slow, crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You underestimate me, Bookworm."

"Where did you learn how to cook steak like that?"

Knox’s smirk softened, taking on that rare, tender nostalgia that always made my heart ache in the best possible way.

"My grandfather," Knox said quietly, spooning melted butter over the golden crust. "When my parents were busy hosting charity galas in Manhattan or running corporate summits for Sheridan Global, I spent summers at his farm in Vermont. He taught me that if you’re going to eat meat, you learn how to respect the fire. He made the best mashed potatoes in New England."

"And did he teach you his potato secrets?" I teased.

Knox picked up a small spoon from the counter, scooped a tiny mound of creamy, steaming Yukon gold potatoes from a ceramic bowl, and held it out to me.

"Taste it and tell me," he murmured.

I leaned forward across the island, parting my lips, and let Knox feed me the warm potatoes. The garlic was roasted to perfection, rich with cream and seasoned with sea salt. It melted across my tongue like velvet.

"Oh, wow," I breathed, closing my eyes in pure delight. "That’s... incredible, Knox."

Knox’s eyes flared with quiet heat as he watched my lips, his throat working as he swallowed.

"Good," he rasped softly. "Because dinner’s ready."

We took the plates and the bottle of wine upstairs to Knox’s room upstairs.

He had placed a low wooden coffee table on the thick wool rug in front of his leather sofa, lighting two small vanilla candles that cast a warm, golden glow across the wood and grey walls.

We sat side by side on the floor with our backs against the couch cushions, eating the incredible steak, laughing, and sharing stories.

We talked about Friday’s upcoming game against Boston.

"Brennan played film this morning," Knox said, cutting another tender piece of steak. "Boston’s power play is lethal. If we want the Founders Cup and a ticket to the Frozen Four, we have to beat them on our ice."

"You’re going to beat them, Knox," I said firmly, reaching out to rest my hand over his knee. "I’ll be sitting right in Section 102 wearing number nineteen, screaming until my voice gives out."

Knox stared down at my hand on his knee, then looked up into my eyes with an expression so fierce and full of devotion that my breath caught clean in my throat.

"You’re my good luck charm, Bennett," he whispered. "You’re the only reason I’m even on that ice."

After we finally finished every last bite, I pushed my plate onto the coffee table, letting out a long, defeated groan as I leaned my head back against the sofa cushions.

"If you keep cooking like that, Sheridan," I murmured, staring up at his ceiling with a lazy smile, "I’m going to be in a permanent food coma. I don’t think I can move a single muscle."

Knox let out a low, amused rumble, stretching his long legs out on the rug beside mine. He set his wine glass down and rested his arm along the couch cushions behind my head, his fingers casually playing with the ends of my curls.

"That was the strategy, Bennett," Knox said, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Immobilize you with red meat and garlic mash so you couldn’t escape back to North Hall."

"Diabolical," I chuckled, turning my head on the cushion to look at him. "Coach Brennan would be proud of the tactics."

Knox smiled softly, taking our empty plates and heading downstairs to drop them in the sink.

When he returned a couple of minutes later, the house was dead quiet.

He clicked a button on his phone, and a slow, soulful acoustic melody drifted softly from the speakers on his dresser, wrapping around the candlelit warmth of the room.

Knox didn’t sit back on the floor.

Instead, he stepped onto the rug in his black socks, walked over, and extended a large, calloused hand down to me.

"Come here," Knox murmured.

I placed my small hand in his.

He gently pulled me up from the floor, his other arm sliding effortlessly around my waist to draw me flush against his solid chest.

"Dance with me," he whispered softly against my hair.