Intentionally alone.
I wonder if it’s too late to fake a medical emergency?
Definitely too late.
“So,” I say, because someone has to say something and it might as well be me making it weird. “Here we are.”
“Here we are,” Marco echoes, and there’s something in his voice that makes his words sound like... a promise?
Stop it, Jess.
He’s just being polite. Polite and rich and devastatingly handsome and smelling like an Italian bakery had a baby with a cologne ad.
I take a sip of my latest Moscow Mule to givemyself something to do with my hands. The copper mug is cold and grounding.
I need grounding right now.
“Can I ask you something?” Marco leans forward slightly, and the movement brings that scent closer.
Mmmmmm.
Bitter orange.
Espresso.
Something so very woodsy underneath.
Yes please.
“You can ask,” I say. “Whether I answer is a different story.”
Oh I’ll answer all right. With my mouth squarely planted on those ever-so-luscious lips of—
Stop!
His mouth quirks. “Fair enough. What’s your favorite meal?”
Of all the questions I was bracing for, that wasn’t one of them. “My favorite meal?”
Did I just feel the sexual tension pop like a balloon?
“Humor me,” he insists.
I think about deflecting with a joke, but something in his expression makes me tell the truth instead. There’s definitely still sexual tension between us. With an emphasis on thesexual.
“Spaghetti with lobster,” I reply. “The good kind, where they crack it tableside and the butter is ridiculous and you don’t care that you’re getting it all over yourself.”
He nods slowly, like he’s filing that information away for future reference. Which is absurd. Why would he need to remember my favorite food?
“I can make a killerspaghetti all’astice,” he says, and it’s not a brag. Just a fact, delivered in that low steady voice.
“Of course you can.” I’m smiling despite myself. “You’re a chef. That’s like saying you can breathe air.”
“Former chef,” he corrects. “Now I mostly just yell at other people who cook for me.”
“Living the dream.”
“Something like that.”
