Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player novel Chapter 213

Chapter 213

TESSA

I don’t bother putting two and two together. He’s friends with Cam, the blabbermouth, and Liam, whose girlfriend has recently turned into a blabbermouth herself. Apparently, even my crimes against cuisine are public knowledge now.

Emilia Janice Carter, you better sleep with one eye open. I will have my revenge.

“Great. I’ll whip something up,” I say, pushing off the couch with far more confidence than I actually own.

—

Aaron trails me into the kitchen, and I can feel him watching me like he’s waiting to witness a disaster unfold in real time. When I grab a pan, he settles against the counter, arms folded, all broad shoulders and unfairly good jawline.

“You don’t cook,” he says, so calm it almost sounds like a fact carved into law.

Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, sir. Really warms the heart.

“I can cook,” I shoot back, chin lifted. “I just… don’t cook well.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he mutters, quiet, but not nearly quiet enough.

I whip around with a wooden spoon like I’m brandishing a sword. “Hey! You haven’t even tried my cooking.”

His eyes flick to the spoon, then rise slowly to my face. He doesn’t even crack a smile. His voice is low, steady, teasing in the subtlest way. “I’ve heard about Emilia’s taste–testing. That says enough.”

So it was Liam. Of course.

“You’re supposed to encourage me.” I huff, tossing the spoon onto the counter with dramatic flair. “Not – what’s the word? – sabotage me?”

Something flickers in his gaze — something warm and faintly amused but his tone stays even. “I’m not sabotaging. I’m saving myself.”

I blink at him. “Excuse me?”

“From food poisoning.”

I gasp, scandalized, hand flying to my chest. “Did THE Aaron Cobalt just make a joke?”

His ears pink immediately, which only makes my grin widen. He tries to hold his ground, leaning back against the counter like he’s unaffected, but his mouth twitches at the corner.

“I’m serious,” he says. “If you cook, I’m helping.”

“You don’t trust me alone in the kitchen?” I ask, stepping closer, toeing into his space just enough to make his jaw tighten.

“I don’t,” he says simply, his gaze dipping to mine, steady and warm, like the words mean far more than food. I falter a bit.

“You might be a worse cook than I am.”

“Not possible.”

I actually agree with him. I start rattling through cabinets like a contestant on a cooking show who’s already lost. “Okay. I’ve got pasta.

I think. And maybe chicken? Or possibly tofu. Could be either.”

Aaron slides in beside me, opens the fridge, and within two seconds has located everything I was pretending didn’t exist. “Chicken,” he says simply, setting it on the counter with military precision. Then pasta. Then spices I don’t even remember buying.

“Show–off.” I mutter, but I’m smiling.

The kitchen’s small, barely enough room for two people, but Aaron still insists on wedging himself right behind me at the counter, reaching past with maddening calm to take over the onions I’ve been butchering. His arm brushes mine, steady and precise, like he doesn’t notice what he’s doing to me. But I know he docs. His ears are pink again.

His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that should probably be illegal. He moves with this quiet, unhurried confidence, like the kitchen was always meant for him, like he’s always belonged here. It’s… distracting. And unfair. And so stupidly attractive that I forget to breathe for a second.

“I was doing a pretty good job at that,” I protest weakly, reaching for the knife like I’m not dying inside.

He glances at me. Just a glance, and my entire argument dissolves. His expression doesn’t move an inch, but his eyes flick down to the blade in my hand, then back to my face. The look says everything: You? With a knife?

I bristle, heat flooding my cheeks. “I’m not that bad, you know.”

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