“Come on,” I say, needing to do something that isn’t staring at his lips. “All this talk about sex and food is making me hungry.”
I stand, keeping my hands on his hips and bringing him up with me. He lets out a surprised yelp that lands warm in my chest. I don’t acknowledge it. I just walk us into the kitchen, his feet shuffling along with mine, and then I lift him like it’s nothing and set him on the counter.
He blinks down at me, cheeks pink, thighs around my waist.
“I don’t have much,” I say, opening cabinets just to give my hands something to do. “But I can make pasta and garlic bread.”
“You’re going to cook for me?” he asks, like I’ve suggested cannibalism.
I arch a brow. “You’re a guest in my home. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, when you’re a chef, people usually expect?—”
“Unless you want to cook,” I cut in. “But I’m not asking you to. Especially not in my kitchen.”
His mouth curves. “I don’t mind sitting back and watching you make pasta.”
“It’s just spaghetti with jar sauce,” I mutter, filling a pot with water. I apologize under my breath. “Sorry, Aunt Sofia, for I have sinned.”
He grins. “You’ve mentioned her twice now. What makes her Tuscan chicken cookbook worthy?”
I set the pot on the stove and turn on the burner. “She grew up in Sicily, lived there until her teens. Then her parents moved to New York.”
His eyes light up. “I’d kill to go to Sicily. The food must be to die for. Did she teach you to cook?”
“She tried,” I say. “I’m not great. She is. Her lasagna is my favorite. Perfect layers, just enough cheese, no weird shortcuts.”
“Does she make her own pasta?”
I give him a look.
“Right,” he says. “Dumb question.”
“She used to say her grandmother would roll in her grave if she used boxed,” I add, dumping boxed spaghetti into the boiling water.
He snorts. “And yet…”
“I try,” I say. “Doesn’t mean I’m good at it.”
I grab a few slices of bread, seasoning them with butter and garlic, then stick them in the toaster oven.
“We have dinner once a week,” I offer. “You could come nexttime, if you want. She’d talk your ear off about lasagna and let you steal a recipe for the cookbook.”
His eyes go wide. “Really? You don’t think she’d mind? I’d love to write something with each recipe. Hear the stories.”
“Of course.”
“Awesome, sounds like a date.” He gives me a cheeky wink.
I roll my eyes, throwing a dish towel at him. “Do something useful, will ya?”
He catches the towel and quickly hops off the counter like his ass is on fire. “I almost forgot. The other reason I came over here.” Beckett jogs out of the kitchen, and a few seconds later, I hear the front door opening.
I lean against the counter, listening, a smile tugging at my mouth. He keeps me on my toes. I’d never admit it out loud, but I like it. I like… this. The noise. The movement. The feeling of not being alone in my own house.
I could add that to my list—that I’m totally not keeping—of the reasons Beckett is different from all the other partners in my past.
Ever since that first kiss and my world-class disappearing act, I’ve had these stupid dreams of growing older invading my sleepless nights. I’m always sitting on Parker’s Peak, a rocky cliff looking out over the ocean, but I’m not alone. I can’t see anyone, but it’s like I can feel someone right next to me. I remember waking up and reaching an arm out, like I’m expecting someone to be lying next to me, and there’s a twinge in my chest when my hand hits the cold sheets.
