Our fingers brush as I reach for it, and a spark shoots up my arm. Hope’s eyes widen in shock, but she doesn’t comment.
I wonder if she felt it, too. Probably just static electricity, dumbass.
Hope leans a hip against the counter while the sauce simmers. Steam curls around her face. Her eyes lift to mine, and I’m taken aback by what I see. They’re too innocent, too trusting. I look away before she can see the deadness I carry inside of me.
I shouldn’t be here. I know that. I’ve known it since the moment she invited me, cheerful and oblivious to how a guy likeme doesn’t get to sit in warm kitchens with good women who make their own sauce from scratch. Not anymore. I lost that the day I buried my mom.
But then I met Hope, she asked me to come over, and I accepted. It hits me like a lightning bolt out of the blue… I’d do anything for this woman.
You just met her, moron.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself as I watch her roll meatballs. Lord help me, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to leave her.
CHAPTER 7
HOPE
“How’s the beer?”
Focusing on rolling the meatballs like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, I avoid eye contact. The last thing I need to do is run around the island and wrap my arms around him. Keeping my hands occupied means they aren’t free to wander of their own accord.
Frost keeps pretending he’s fine, but I can feel the tension rolling off him. He sits straight-backed on the stool, beer in hand, like he’s ready to bolt if I say the wrong thing. He’s quiet, but his eyes track every move I make, from me stirring the sauce to adding spices. He even seems to track when I shift my weight.
He’s not watching in a possessive way, more like he’s memorizing it. No one’s ever looked at me like that. It's unnerving, but at the same time, kind of wonderful.
My sauce is coming together nicely, deep red and fragrant, exactly how mom taught me. I stir it slowly, letting the garlic soften in the tomatoes, and breathing in the sweet, savory smell. When I toss in more basil, it releases that fresh garden scent that always reminds me of summers with my grandmother. I swear Frost closes his eyes for half a second when it hits the air.
He likes this. He likes being here, even if he thinks he shouldn’t.
“So,” I say, rolling another meatball. “You never told me what you actually do for fun.”
His mouth quirks. “I didn’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He lifts his beer and takes a long sip like he’s buying time. “Been a while since anyone asked.”
Something in my chest softens. This man is harboring some heavy things. I don’t know what, but I want to.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’m asking now.”
He looks at me then, really looks. The heat from the stove feels tame compared to his gaze.
“I’m… working on it,” he says, the words sounding like a confession.
“Well. You’re doing pretty well tonight.”
He lets out a soft laugh while he looks down at the beer bottle, turning it slowly in his hand.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, rolling another meatball. “You haven’t bolted yet. That’s progress.”
His mouth curves. “Was that an option?”
“It’s always an option,” I tell him. “But I reserve the right to judge you for it.”
“Oh, I see. So, I’d be allowed to leave, but you’d mock me forever.”
