"I can do better than that." His mouth curves. "My pasta skills are legendary."
"Legendary where? In the Titan HR handbook?"
"In my own head, which is the only place that matters." He nods toward the aisle between the island and the range. "Come on. Sit there. Let me cook for you and the bean."
"The bean?"
He shrugs, heading for the fridge. "Until we come up with something more dignified."
I take my water and slide onto the end stool by the corner of the island, close enough to the range to feel the cool air from the vent hood, far enough to watch him without craning my neck.
He moves around his kitchen like he moves through meetings—efficient, clean, everything within reach.
Stainless steel drawers whisper open, a pot hits the induction burner with a low thud, and the gas flames beneath the other burner snap to life with a soft whuff.
In a minutes, olive oil glints in a pan. Garlic hits the heat with a sharp sizzle as my bossy baby daddy tosses in crushed red pepper.
In the obscenely extravagant kitchen, the air warms. With heat. Spice. And the scent of my desire, which is rising every time his muscular forearms reach for another ingredient.
I clear my throat, shifting on the stool.
“Smells amazing," I admit.
He glances over his shoulder. "I’m very motivated."
The words curl around my ribs and settle somewhere low as Donovan turns back to the stove, adding cherry tomatoes, letting them blister and burst.
The sweet-acid smell mixes with garlic and oil, filling the space while he salts pasta water likehe’s done it a thousand times. He tosses in linguine, and sets a timer with the same precision he applies to investor calls.
And my brain can’t seem to come to grips with how erotic this domestic scene is. How surprising.
And how completely disorienting.
I check my watch.
I was only supposed to give Donovan one hour, and now at forty-seven minutes and thirty seconds, that time is quickly passing by.
I should leave. Except I can’t seem to move. Or speak. Or think.
"You're staring," he says without turning.
"You're cooking," I counter. "It's unsettling."
“I’m a man of many talents.” He kills the heat, tosses the pasta straight from the pot into the pan, the noodles hissing as the starchy water hits hot oil. At the last second, he adds a knob of butter, swirling everything together until it glosses.
He plates with unfailing competence. A twist of pasta in a wide white bowl, topped with tomatoes, basil torn with his fingers, a snowfall of parmesan.
He slides the bowl in front of me, along with a fork and napkin. "For you."
My stomach, traitor that it is, growls. "Okay, this looks decent.”
"Eat before it congeals." He leans both hands on the island, watching me.
I twirl a cautious forkful. It smells bright and garlicky and…safe. The first bite hits my tongue—silk and acid and heat—and my eyes close of their own accord.
"Oh my God," I groan. "That's better than decent."
"High praise. I’ll print that on the menus when I open my inevitable backup trattoria."
