I ran a hand over the back of my neck, wondering how the hell to bring up what I needed to say without ruining the fragile thing that had just started to form between us.
Because for the first time in my life,I cared more about how she felt than what I needed to know.
And that truth—that shift—hit me harder than anything else.
The low melody of instrumental jazz music floated through the air as I pushed open the front door. My gaze shifted to the blazing fire in the fireplace and pride swelled. Rose had made, and maintained, her first fire, all by herself. It was like a little piece of me was in there with her. I liked that. I liked that I’d had a hand in that fire; that I’d made my stamp on the place.
The cabin was warm with the savory scent of something Italian lingering in the air. My stomach growled. A candle was lit in the living room.
An almost-empty glass of wine sat on the coffee table next to an open book.
There was a warmth, a coziness to the place that reminded me of my own home growing up when mygreatest worry was how to beat my brothers at a game of war that afternoon. When things were happier.
Her head popped around the kitchen wall. “Hi, there. Come in.”
She’d changed into a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, a sweatshirt that read ‘I get psyched for Psychology,’ and fuzzy slippers. Her long, black hair was up in a messy bun, and dammit if she didn’t look sexier than she did in her designer suits. In pajamas, Rose Floris was far sexier and more tantalizing than any woman on any page in Vogue.
And at that moment, I realized there was no place in the world I’d rather be.
My heart gave a little kick.
When I stepped into the kitchen, she was pulling down a plate from a cabinet filled with matching dinnerware sets, each stacked according to color. She set the plate—only one—on the counter, then uncovered a glass casserole dish. Steam unfurled from a lasagna, cheese bubbling over the sides. She’d cooked for me, and despite the immediate excitement, I felt bad that she’d gone to the trouble.
She scooped a hefty amount onto the plate, then breezed past me and set it on the table in the breakfast nook.
“Sit.”
“Oh. No, it’s okay. I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are. Sit.”
“I’m good.”
“Sit,Phoenix.”
“Are you going to eat with me?”
“Sit.”
I did as I was told. She placed a tall glass of tea—with two lemons—in front of me. Her hand rested on my shoulder. I looked up.
“Eat,” she said, looking down at me.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know. We’ll talk about whatever it is that’s on your mind later, but you’re going to eat first. Based on the circles under your eyes, I’m guessing you haven’t eaten dinner today, or lunch.”
Or, breakfast, but she didn’t need to know that.
My mouth watered as I looked down at the food. Each bubbling layer was distinct and oozing with filling.
“You really made this?”
“That’s a hefty insult for someone with Italian blood.”
“Sorry.” I picked up my fork and dug in—and literally groaned in satisfaction.
She smiled widely. I loved that smile.
