It isn’t like I’m ready to throw myself at them and see where it gets me.
They’re Dad’s best friends.
Completely off-limits.
Allof them.
This isn’t complicated, it’s basic common sense.
Besides, they’re only here for the weekend, just passing through for Dad’s birthday, and nothing more.
I tell myself that again and again as I stir the sauce and check on the tenderness of the noodles.
I exhale through my nose, muttering to myself, “Jesus, Noelle. Get a grip. You don’t even know them.”
By the time the pasta’s almost done boiling, a voice startles me.
“Oh damn, smells amazing in here.”
When I look up, it’s Dean I see wandering into the kitchen again. He’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, an easy grin stretching across his face.
I blink, forcing a breath past the sudden flutter in my chest. “You scared me.”
“Didn’t mean to,” he says, still grinning. “Couldn’t resist following the smell, though. First cookies, now real food? I could get used to this. Smells heavenly.”
I laugh softly, turning back to the stove so he won’t see the way my face heats. “It’s just pasta. Hardly anything special.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I must’ve been living in hell,” he teases, stepping farther into the kitchen.
I stir the sauce, focusing on the small bubbles breaking at the surface and the steady rhythm of the spoon. “I don’t believe that for a second. You strike me as the kind of guy who knows his way around a grill.”
“Guilty,” he admits, leaning his hip against the counter near me. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate someone else doing the cooking. Especially when it’s this good. I’m kind of a foodie.”
The compliment shouldn’t do anything to me, but my pulse stumbles anyway. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”
“Don’t need to. I can already tell it’s going to hit the spot.”
The kitchen feels smaller now that he’s close to me again.
The low light of the overhead fan glows against the steam, clouding the air in front of me.
When I move to turn the burner down, it’s then that I realize how close he’s standing only a few inches from me.
I risk a glance his way, and he catches it instantly. His grin shifts into something a little softer, more subdued, tugging at my heartstrings.
He speaks after a beat, tone teasing again. “I didn’t peg you as the domestic type. Whenever Richard talked about his daughter, he always said you were always so busy in your room burying yourself in textbooks.‘Real studious’he’s always saying. It’s nice to see you don’t have an aversion to stoves.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence. You know, book smart people can cook too.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Hey, his words, not mine. Didn’t say I agreed with them.”
The playful edge in his voice makes something twist low in my stomach again, and I quickly clear my throat before taking the boiling pot off the burner. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Then make yourself useful.” I gesture to a drawer with a nod. “Grab me a strainer for the pasta.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, mock-saluting.
