“Have a seat.” Beau pulls out one of the barstools, then hurries over to the stove to stir something. Whatever it is, it smells divine. I’m thinking alfredo sauce, since I can see another pot of pasta on the back burner, a wooden spoon lying across the open top as the water boils.
“I’ll just set your towel over here.” I drape it over the back of one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. “Sorry. I probably should’ve washed it.”
Beau glances at me with a smile. “It’s no problem. Can I get you a drink? We’ve got…” He goes over to the fridge and opens it. “Coke Zero, water, and what looks like some of Tristan’s leftover protein shake.”
“Coke Zero would be great,” I say, sitting on the barstool. I probably should’ve refused a drink. This is a ten-minute conversation, max.
He slides the can across the counter like a practiced bartender, then turns back to the stove, humming what sounds suspiciously like “Gangsta’s Paradise” as he uses the wooden spoon to take out a piece of pasta.
Cupping a hand beneath to catch any water, he blows on it gently, then brings it over and puts it in front of me.
“What, me?” I ask, like it’s unclear what he’s expecting.
“Yes, you. Although Xena will gladly step in if needed. She just doesn’t have a very developed palate to let me know if the pasta is done.”
I try to eat the pasta off the spoon as gracefully as possible and with minimal slurping.
Beau watches as I chew, and whether it’s the way he looks at me or the heat of multiple pots and pans on the stove, it suddenly feels extremely warm in here.
“It’s good,” I say.
He smiles and turns back to the stove. Taking the kitchen towel hanging over the oven handle, he grabs the sides of the pasta pot with it and moves it to the sink to drain. Once the pasta pot is back on the stove, he tosses the towel over his shoulder. Yet another great shot forHeroes of the Month. Maybe that’s what I should do with all the footage I’ll have of Beau—make and sell a calendar. A little side hustle.
He grabs two pasta bowls from the cupboard.
“Oh,” I say, “you don’t need to get one for me.”
“It’s for Xena,” he says.
I open my mouth to pull out my foot, but he winks. “I’m kidding. It’s for you.”
He’s the worst. And yet the best. “Thanks, but I shouldn’t stay. Got lots to pack.” Lie. I’m done packing except for the things I have to wait until tomorrow for. But I need to get out of here. It’s like he was expecting me tonight and is determined to distract me from my purpose with his sexy, undone cop cooking show. “I just wanted to touch base on the footage I’ve got and what you’d like for me to do with it.”
He doesn’t put the second bowl away. He tips the pasta pot until a cascade of steaming, delicious carbs falls into one and then the other.
I clear my throat to drown out the sound of my stomach, but my eyes are transfixed by the mouthwatering sauce he’s drizzling over the pasta. “I can put them in a folder in the cloud to share with you, or…”
He grabs a covered plate I hadn’t noticed and brings it over,pulling off the cover to reveal thinly cut grilled chicken breast. “Would you like chicken with your pasta?”
“Yes,” I respond automatically, salivating. “Wait. No. I’m not staying. Beau, are you even listening to me?”
“Nope,” he says. “It’s hot in here, right?” He walks past the table and pulls open the glass sliding door. Then he shrugs off his uniform shirt and slings it over the nearest chair back, leaving him in his tank top.
Suddenly, I’m feeling a whole different type of heat and hunger.
He walks back to the island I’m sitting at and takes the bowls over to the table.
“Beau,” I say.
“Hm?” He’s busy getting forks and knives, which he sets on the proper sides of the plates.
This man vexes me greatly.
I stand up and walk over to him, grabbing his wrists. “Beau.”
His eyes fix on mine.
“I’m leaving tomorrow, so there are things we need to discuss.”
