“Exactly.”
He looks at me again with the same intense stare that makes the air feel warmer than it should. “Guess I’ll stay, then.”
I try to keep my face neutral, but I can’t stop the smile that tugs my lips. “Oh, good. I was worried I’d have to bribe you to stay.”
“With garlic bread?”
I freeze mid meatball roll. “Garlic bread?”
“You’re making garlic bread too, right?”
I narrow my eyes dramatically. “Maybe.”
Frost leans back on the stool like he’s reconsidering his entire life’s trajectory. “You opened with homemade spaghetti sauce and meatballs and saved the garlic bread reveal for later?”
“It’s called dramatic timing,” I say, shaping another meatball with exaggerated precision. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You know,” he says slowly. “I think you’re getting off on tormenting me.”
“Maybe I am.”
His eyes rake down my body, making my stomach flip. “Maybe I am, too,” he says quietly.
I clear my throat, flustered, and drop the meatball onto the tray. “Flattery will not get you more bread.”
He smirks. “Maybe I’m not trying to get more bread.”
I glance up, but he’s looking at the sauce now, like he didn’t just drop a small bomb into the room.
“Anyway,” I say, forcing lightness back into my voice. “What do you do for fun? We were discussing your nonexistent hobbies.”
He gives me a look. “I have hobbies.”
“Oh yeah?”
He shrugs. “I ride.”
I raise both eyebrows. “Ride? Like your motorcycle?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” I say. “You ride, what else?”
He thinks for a long moment before answering. “I rebuild cars,” he says.
“You do?”
“Yeah, back home when I’m not traveling,” he explains. “I love bringing classics back to life.”
My hands soften around the next meatball. “That counts,” I whisper.
He nods once. “Figured it might.”
A comfortable silence stretches out. The sauce bubbles quietly on the stove. The smell of basil and garlic fills every inch of the air between us. His gaze drifts back to me, lingering a second too long.
“Your turn,” he says.
“Oh, no. No, no.” I point a basil leaf at him. “We weren’t done with you.”
