“He gave me one too,” I said. “At the diner.” His jaw tightened for a second. “Do you want to go?”
“Want to?” I snorted. “No. But I’m also kind of curious.”
“Curious,” he echoed.
“I mean… if he’s really as pompous as advertised, there’s probably gold-plated toilet seats, and a menu that says, ‘Trust the chef.’ I feel like I deserve to see that.”
His mouth twitched. “You just want to be nosy.”
“Absolutely. And maybe prove I’m not hiding.”
He shook his head, amused, his eyes soft with understanding. “Okay. But if we’re going to snoop, you’re not doing it alone.”
I met his eyes. “Are you suggesting we go together?”
“Yes,” he said, voice low. “Go with me.”
The yes came quicker than my caution could protest. “Okay,” I said, then added, because honesty had apparently become a house rule too, “If it gets weird, we bail and go to my place for grilled cheese.”
“Deal.” The tension in his shoulders eased. “We’ll be extremely polite for thirty minutes and then commit carb crimes.”
“Excellent plan.” I swallowed, heat rising to my cheeks for no good reason. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making it feel safe. Like I’ll be okay if I go.”
“You’ll be okay,” he said in a low growl. “I’ll make sure of it.”
He checked the pasta, stirred the sauce, ladled a little into a shallow dish, and slid it toward me with the kind of focus that makes people confess things. I tore off a piece of bread and tasted. He watched my face like he was waiting for a series of medical reports or something. I smiled as I chewed.
I put the bread down carefully. “That,” I said, “tastes delicious. Perfection.”
He didn’t move for a breath. Then he reached across the island and brushed his thumb over the corner of my mouth.
“You’re wearing it,” he murmured.
“Kind of you to point that out,” I whispered, but I didn’t step back.
The kitchen hummed with the tension between us. The pot bubbled. I felt the yes building in my chest and didn’t try to smother it. If we wanted to kiss me, I was going to let him. Heck, I might just make the first move; that’s how right this felt.
“I’m trying to be careful,” he whispered. “With you.”
“Me too,” I said. “With you. I don’t want to be misleading. This is new between us, and I know I’ve been?—”
“New doesn’t have to mean scary,” he said, eyes steady. “It can mean good.”
I didn’t plan it. I leaned in. He met me halfway.
The kiss was soft for a heartbeat—tentative and sweet, careful the way you hold something delicate in your palm. Then his hand slid to the hinge of my jaw, and I forgot how to keep things soft. I rose onto my toes; he stepped closer, crowding me gently against the edge of the island. He tasted like tomato and basil, and the stubborn possibility that maybe I could trust this. When I opened to him, he answered—slow, sure, not pushy—just enough to make my pulse go off the rails, and my fingers curl in his shirt.
A quiet sound slipped out of me. He swallowed it like a promise and deepened the kiss, coaxing rather than taking, one careful degree at a time. Heat curled through me, hungry and terrifying and so, soright.
He was the one who eased back, foreheads touching, breaths tangling. “I’m trying to be good,” he said, a little wrecked, a little amused with himself.
“You are,” I said, equally wrecked. “And I wanted that. So no apologizing.”
His mouth curved, thumb stroking once along my cheekbone like he was memorizing the map. “Duly noted.”
