“You asked,” he counters. “Now I get to ask.”
“But I wasn’t prepared.”
“That’s not my problem.”
I roll my eyes even though I’m smiling. “Fine. I cook.”
“That’s obvious. What else?”
“I write romance novels.”
He chuckles. “That’s what you do professionally, right?” I nod. “Then how is that something you do for fun?”
“When you do something you love for a living, it’s not really work,” I explain. “At least, that’s what my mom’s always saying.”
He swallows hard, and his face falls. “Smart woman.”
I force the conversation back to safer ground. “Okay, well. Since you know what I do… what’s your opinion?”
“My opinion on what?”
“On romance.”
He looks at me for a long, slow second. “I know you write about it…” He takes a sip of beer. “But have you ever really experienced it?”
The last meatball slips out of my hand and lands with a thud on the pan, slightly flattening.
“W-what do you mean?” I ask.
He gives a small, crooked smile. “The books you write, have you ever experienced the type of romance your characters have?” he murmurs.
“No,” I admit, slightly embarrassed. “Have you?”
“No.” He meets my gaze squarely. “I have a feeling that’s about to change, though.”
Oh… Oh.
The room suddenly feels too warm. I turn back to the meatballs before I do something ridiculous, like drop the entire tray and jump his bones. This man is absolutely going to ruin me, and I’m starting to think I’m going to let him.
CHAPTER 8
FROST
“Can you put the silverware out for me?”
Hope hands me a couple of forks and knives, along with some napkins to lay out for dinner. I happily oblige since I haven’t done anything the last couple of hours besides offer conversation. She’s a beast in the kitchen. Chopping and mixing fast without looking at a cookbook and without a huge mess. I don’t know how she did it without cutting off a finger.
Once the table is set, Hope carries the plates to the table. Steam rises off the food, and the smell of garlic and tomatoes fills me with a comfort I didn’t know I needed until it was right in front of me. Hope sits across from me, lifting her fork with that bright, effortless grace she has.
I should be enjoying the food, but there’s a weight in my chest, something pressing to be let out. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or it’s her and the way she looks at me, like she actually wants to know who I am and not just the pieces I let people see.
You haven’t drankthatmuch.
She twirls spaghetti on her fork. “You look like you’re thinking something very intense.”
“I’m always thinking something intense.” I take a bite of a meatball and groan in appreciation.
She chuckles. “I take it you approve.”
