She blinked, desire sparking in her eyes.“Sancocho,”she whispered.
Whatever that was, it was delicious. Flavorful and full of spice. His stomach reminded him of its hunger, but he had a stronger need at this point. He tossed the spoon into the sink and swept her up in the dance.
Magic. As always, it was magic. She anticipated his every move as if they had a telepathic connection. No hesitation, no lag time. No thinking. Just feeling, just bodies, just movement. She was living fire in his arms. The music soared around them, flowed through them. The bubbling pot on the stove surrounded them in aromas that made his mouth water, but underlying the scent ofsancochowas Natasha’s own fig and ginger combo. He pulled her in close, breathing in the scent of her hair—pulled up in a curly bun—and she writhed against him.
The song ended. He’d backed her up against the counter, their faces close.
She ducked her head, but he caught the smile curving her lips. “Um, I have to stir,” she said, but she didn’t pull away.
Swallowing hard, he released her, then spotted the open bottle of red wine on the counter with one glass next to it.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, nodding at the bottle. “I had kind of a rough day.”
“I don’t. But you didn’t pour me a glass.” He took one down from the cabinet.
She cut him a look. “I didn’t think you’d be home.”
Tension thickened, pressing against his skin. She turned back to the stove, but he didn’t want to let it drop. She thought of his house as home? Good. Something to exploit.
He poured himself a glass and topped off hers. “I’ve had some late nights at the restaurant.”
“Putting out fires?”
He sighed. “Literal and figurative.”
She took the glass he gave her and clinked it against his. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Today wasn’t bad. I was meeting with my lawyer most of the day. Not as much drama with him, if you can believe it.” He sipped, savoring the fruity, herbal flavor, knowing that if he kissed her right now he’d taste it on her tongue, too. “Tell me about your day.”
She rolled her eyes and knocked back a long swallow of wine. “I got a call from Kevin about my producer, Donna. Apparently she’s asking about us, thanks to your little show the other day.”
Uh-oh, work stuff. He could already feel Natasha closing off. “Is that why you’re making comfort food?”
She gave him a surprised smile. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “I also turn to food from home when I’m stressed. There are a few items on the restaurant’s menu that are specifically for when I need Ukrainian comfort food. Reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen.”
She smiled as she sliced green plantains. “My great-grandmother taught me to cook Puerto Rican food. My mom was always too busy.”
“Your great-grandmother?” He settled against the counter and drank his wine. “What happened to your grandmother?”
She shrugged. “Never met her.”
There was more to that story. He waited to see if she’d elaborate. After checking the rice, she did.
“My mother got pregnant when she was sixteen. Swore she was going to marry the guy—who was older, and a loser, by all accounts—so her mother sent her from Puerto Rico to New York. I was born there, and grew up with my great-grandparents and my mother, all in a two-bedroom apartment.”
“Where did you sleep?”
“A section of the living room.”
“When I moved here—to America—I shared a room with Nik, who was still a baby, and my two cousins.”
She shrugged. “Whatever it takes, right? But look where you are now.”
“You, too.”
She snorted. “We both know I’m here out of desperation. I can’t even get my shit together enough to manage my own living situation. Without Gina, I’m a fucking mess.”
