“And where’s yours?” I ask, the seemingly innocent question burning my cheeks.
He smirks, nodding his chin down the hallway. “Themuchsmaller one down there.”
“Awww, I hope you don’t have square footage envy.” I pout.
“How does that old saying go? It’s not how big your bedroom is, it’s how you use it.” His eyes glint mischievously.
I blush, letting out a nervous laugh.
Sensing my awkwardness, he changes the subject, gesturing around the kitchen. “But this is mostly my domain.”
“So you are the cat sitter and his personal chef?” I glance over the kitchen counters, which have an air of organized chaos, clean but cluttered. Tupperware containers and chopping boards stacked neatly like Legos.
“You’d be shocked and appalled by the amount of takeout consumed in this household.” My mind jumps to the image of Oliver and Dominic hanging out, watching TV, and eating Chinese food out of the plastic tubs.
“So what’s the special occasion?” I ask, gesturing to the bubbling pot on the stovetop.
His gaze runs over the busy countertops before reaching me. “An emergency hostage negotiation. I thought you might be hostile, so I wanted to get on your good side.”
I look down at my leggings, oversized sweater, and boots. “I’m not dressed for dinner, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
He purses his lips, taking the opportunity to scan up and down my body. “I think you look perfect for truffle and rosemary pasta.”
I stare at a bloodred pasta maker on the kitchen counterwith fresh flour sprinkled over its machinery. “Youhandmadepasta?”
He shrugs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You said you didn’t get to eat any pasta in Rome. I’m only an eighth Italian, but I think it’s pretty good.”
My knees weaken. “You’re kidding? How long did this take you?”
His small smattering of freckles becomes more pronounced as his cheeks redden. “I’d rather not say. I need to retain a small amount of my dignity.”
“And you made me ice cream?” I can’t help but sound like an awestruck little girl when I see the freshly cleaned machine on another counter; there’s no way to make that question sound like it came from the mouth of a high-functioning adult.
He leans against the counter. “Well, I didn’t know what kind you’d like, so I made three. Miso vanilla gelato, sea salt chocolate ice cream, and strawberry sorbet.”
My heart palpitates; nothing has ever been as sexy as that sentence.
I look at him as though he’s crazy, but my chest is swelling. Nobody has ever done something so nice for me with no expectation that I would even show up to receive it.
I gravitate toward him, overlapping my fingers with his on the countertop. “Thank you. I can’t believe you did this, especially when you didn’t know if I’d even show up.”
His palm flips upward, rubbing his thumb against my fingers, turning them into live wires. “I thought worst-case scenario if I didn’t get to see you at least I could eat my feelings.”
I glance briefly at his lips, then swallow. “A solid plan B.”
“So will you stay for dinner?” He looks slightly nervous as he asks, but his hand confidently glides around my wrist and runs the length of my arm.
“You’ve presented a very strong argument.” I follow his movement, holding onto his forearm as we inch closer together.
He studies my face, tucking my hair behind my ear before cupping the side of my jaw. I lean into the warm touch.
A wooden spoon hits the stovetop with a clang as the saucepan starts to bubble over. “Fuck,” he says, dropping his hands and lurching toward the oven dials, taking the bubbling pappardelle off the heat.
I laugh, grabbing the kitchen roll and throwing it to him. He catches it with one hand, which is way more attractive than it should be.
We talk and eat at the kitchen counter. Well, I eat and drink at the counter and try not to moan in pleasure at the delicious pasta. Oliver stands with a towel thrown over his shoulder, taking big bites from his plate as he puts the finishing touches on dessert and makes us orange Negroni spritzes. It’s sexy, seeing him in his element. At one point, I feed him from my fork while he stirs a bowl of sorbet until it freezes over ice. I try not to focus my attention on how his biceps tense or his lips as he runs his tongue over them. He tries not to focus on my finger as I lick a spot of pasta sauce from it. Okay, maybe I did that one on purpose.
Despite his protests, I help him clean the kitchen: wiping down surfaces, loading bowls and plates into the very high-tech dishwasher, and trying not to watch how his shoulders flex when he lifts pots and pans into the sink.
