Allergic to you

Four

Leonie pov

The rain did not stop for three days, neither did Jason Black's attention.

He was everywhere. In the kitchen when I cooked. Reading reports on his tablet while watching me.

In the hallway. In the pantry. His presence filled the space. I could not breathe.

He did not touch me. Not after that night.. His eyes touched everything. My hands, my throat, my chef coat, everywhere.

He looked for something. I did not know what.

On the day. He found it.

I made a mistake. A small one.. Fatal.

Mrs. Holloway left a box in the kitchen. A box of items. A bottle of hand cream. Floral. Rose-scented.

I did not see it. I was rushing. Behind schedule. My binder dug into my ribs. I grabbed the box. My palm pressed against the bottle pump.

The scent transferred to my skin.

I did not notice. I kept cooking. Searing scallops. Deglazing with wine. Whisking beurre blanc.

The kitchen smelled of butter. Shallots. Cream. The rose was buried.

Until Jason walked in.

He stopped. His nostrils flared. His body went rigid.

"What is that smell?" He was quiet. Deadly quiet.

I looked up. "Beurre blanc. With a hint of—"

"Not the food." He stepped closer. His eyes scanned the kitchen. "Flowers. Roses. Someone brought flowers."

My blood turned to ice.

The hand cream. I looked at my hands. Lifted one to my nose.

Rose.

No. No. No. No.

"I—" I started.

He grabbed my wrist. Lifted my hand to his face. Inhaled.

His eyes closed. When they opened. They were dark. Fury. Confusion. Desire.

"You do not wear perfume, " he said. "You told me. You said you did not wear anything."

"Laundry soap " I lied. "The staff must have switched brands—"

"Do not." His grip tightened. "Do not lie to me."

I was silent. My heart was trapped.

He stared at my hand. My skin. My nails. Then he did something. He pressed my palm against his cheek.

His skin was warm. Rough with stubble. I felt him shiver.

"No hives, " he whispered. "No itching. No burning." His eyes met mine. "Your skin should be hurting me. It is not."

"Maybe the allergy is—"

"I was tested. It is still there." He released my wrist. "You are not a woman. Leo.. If you are. You are the one in the world who does not make me break out."

I said nothing.

His hand came up. Trembling. He touched my jaw. His thumb traced my chin.

"I have been watching you, " he said. "Every day. Every meal. The way you move. The way you speak. The way you avoid looking me in the eye." His thumb stopped at my mouth. "You are hiding something. I need to know what."

"Mr. Black—"

"Jason." His voice broke. "Call me Jason."

I could not breathe. Could not think. His thumb was on my lip. I wanted to kiss it. I wanted to run.

Instead. I did the best thing I could.

I stepped back. "I'm sorry " I said. "I need to finish plating."

I turned to the stove. My hands shook. I spooned beurre blanc over the scallops. I felt his gaze on my back.

"Leo."

"Your dinner will be ready in two minutes. Sir."

A long silence. Then: "Jason."

"I'll bring it to the dining room."

I heard his footsteps. The door swung shut.

I sank against the counter. Pressed my hands to my face. Cried – silent. Shaking. Terrified.

Because he was right.

I was hiding something.

He was getting closer every day.

That night. I dreamed of him.

I dreamed of his hands on my waist. His mouth on my throat. His voice whispered my name. I woke up gasping. Tangled in sweat- sheets. My body is aching.

It was 3:00 AM. The house was silent.

I could not stay in that bed.

I pulled on a hoodie. Crept down the stairs to the kitchen. The lights were off. The moon turned everything silver. I padded to the herb garden. Stepped outside barefoot.

The air smelled of thyme and rain. I closed my eyes. Breathed.

"You could not sleep either."

I spun.

Jason stood at the edge of the herb garden. Barefoot. Wearing sweatpants and a thin white t-shirt. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were dark.

He looked younger.

"I'm sorry " I said. "I did not mean to intrude."

"My garden is your garden." He walked toward me. Slow. His feet are silent on the grass. "You cook with these herbs. You have a right to them."

He stopped a foot away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill me.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"I dreamed of you." His voice was low. Raw. "I dreamed of you without your chef coat. Without your beanie. Without whatever you're hiding under your clothes." He tilted his head. "In the dream. You were a woman."

My heart stopped.

"Dreams are not real, " I whispered.

"No." He stepped closer. His chest almost touched mine. ". This is."

He reached out. For the collar of my hoodie. His fingers curled around the fabric.

"Tell me the truth. Leo." His voice was a breath. "Tell me.. I will find out for myself."

I should have run. Should have confessed. Should have done anything except stand with my heart in my throat and my lies crumbling.

I was weak.. Tired.. So desperately alone.

"I can not, " I said. "If I tell you. I lost everything."

"You might lose more if you do not." His hand tightened on my collar. "I am not a man.. You…" His eyes dropped to my mouth. "You are testing every limit I have."

Then he kissed me.

Not gentle. Not questioning. He kissed me like he was drowning. I was air – hard and desperate and consuming. His hand slid from my collar to my neck. Tilting my head back. His body pressed against mine. I felt everything – the heat of him. The hardness. The hunger.

I kissed him back.

I forgot to be Leo. Forgot the binder. Forgot the lies. I was a woman. Kissing a man. It was the real thing I had felt in years.

When he pulled back. We were both gasping.

His forehead pressed against mine. His breath came in.

"You are not a boy, " he said.

I did not deny it.

"I know, " I whispered.

He pulled back. Looked at me – really looked. At my jaw. My lips. The shape of my shoulders under the hoodie.

"Why?" he asked. "Why lie?"

"Because you would not have hired me." My voice cracked. "Because I am a woman.. Women make you sick.. I needed this job more than I needed honesty."

He stared at me. A long. Terrible moment.

Then he laughed – a low. Broken sound.

"You are a woman, " he said slowly. "A woman who has been in my kitchen for six days. Touching my food. Breathing my air." He reached out. Touched my cheek. "I am not sick."

"No, " I whispered softly. "You are not."

His eyes looked darker. His hand just fell.

“Go, we will talk in the morning,” he said, pushing me away from him.