“Did Goldie tell you they’re country hopping the day after tomorrow?” he says over his shoulder.
How bad could it be? I’m being dramatic. It’s not like I’m going to jump back into bed with him ... though, technically, we were against a wall the first time.
I hold the rim of the glass to my lips as I fix my eyes on his back. I mean to give it a dirty look for good measure, but instead, I think,Has it always been that broad?
“They’re headed to Italy. It’s what inspired our meal,” he adds over my thought, but I’m still lost in it.
Why ... why can’t I stop doing that? Sexualizing him has become my sickness.
He does not deserve this kind of attention. My body is acting like Jason Momoa is cooking for me. No ... the meal is a Momoa, the man is an Adam Sandler. Well, maybe he’s a little hotter.
Chase kind of looks like that one actor from that movie remade into a television show—the one that accomplished multigenerational trauma:One Day, I think to myself. He’s a Leo Wood-whatever-his-last-name-is look-alike.
Chase motions to the long strip of rolled-out pasta on the counter. “Funny story—I was gonna text you and invite you to apeace talk, but that felt too presumptuous. Even after you talked to your sister—”
Presumptuous must be your word of the day.
Good job, me. Way to use my inside voice.
“—and telling by the look on your face, tonight may be more of a last supper.”
Shit, note to self: Fix my face.
I grin, hoping it bleeds into my words, before taking another sip of my wine, then say, “Don’t worry, Chase. I may contemplate stabbing you in the hand, but I doubt I’ll nail you to a cross.”
“Phew,” he breathes out dramatically, making the smallest dimple in his cheek expose itself as he holds my gaze. “But look on the bright side. There’s always time to work on your upper-body strength.”
Dammit. I laugh. He got me.
He motions with his head to the woven natural-seagrass barstool in front of the island, and for some unknown reason, I walk there and sit.
I’m not even going to analyze that.
Although I think he does because he smirks, but to his credit, it’s aimed at the marble counter. He scoops out some filling from a bowl and places it on the rolled-out sheet of pasta before he starts speaking like he’s hosting a cooking show.
It’s cute . . .
No, no, it’s a little attention-whorey, but sacrifices must be made, so I should just pretend. His deep voice holds my attention.
“On today’s menu, we are having ravioli. But not just any kind.” His eyes tick up, locking to mine for a quick second. “Truffle and burrata ... which I think makes the regular four cheese look like the amateur hour it is.”
My stomach growls as if on command. In my defense, all I had today was two craft services cookies and a bag of stale BBQ chips.
He raises his brows. “Glad you approve.”
I take another sip of wine, watching as he works the filling into perfect mounds, over and over. It’s kind of mesmerizing. Neither of us speaks as he smooths and rounds the savory dollops.
They’re so messy, but he’s still so precise as he runs his fingertip around the pasta, cleaning it off and leaving none of the good stuff behind.
Whoo, I think I’m getting wine flush—it feels hot in here. But I still bring the glass to my lips again, only contemplating getting water before I take a bigger sip.
He smiles at me as he picks up another long sheet of malleable pasta. “I’m glad you like the wine.”
My eyes dart to my glass. How is that almost gone? Jesus.
What is wrong with me? But the thought barely gets out before my eyes are right back, picking up where I left off.
“Pasta requires a gentle touch,” he says, and I swear his voice is more gravelly. “You can’t get it too wet. It’s about finding that perfect balance.”
