“A couple of hours,” I said, dropping more popcorn.
He nodded, still trying to take everything in.
“Have you eaten?”
“Popcorn.”
“So no,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket.
“Are you going to cook?”
I was more excited about that prospect than I should have been.
And, damn him, he read me easily enough that he noticed.
“Do you have any requests?”
“Nope. I’m just curious if you can top the last meal.”And how frustrated you’re going to get while trying to find ingredients in that pantry.
“Challenge accepted,” he said, rolling up those damn sleeves again.
One day, I needed to survey my aunts and cousins and ask if they, too, got feral when a man rolled up his sleeves, or if it was just a me thing.
“I’ve seen you eat pasta and fish and about five gallons of coffee. But do you have any dietary restrictions or allergies?”
“No. But I hate blue cheese. With a passion.”
“Noted,” he said, going to the fridge.
I hadn’t done too much fussing there, so things were mostly as he left them.
I tried to ignore him and watch my silly show. But curiosity had me unfolding off the couch and making my way into the kitchen.
“Red goes with dinner,” he said, gesturing toward the rack. “Want to pick one out?”
The last thing I needed around him was alcohol. But one glass of wine with dinner wasn’t going to make me fall into bed with him again.
So I picked a wine.
And nearly snort-laughed when he went into the pantry and mumbled a quiet “What the hell?”
I poured myself a glass of wine.
“I may have… moved some things around,” I admitted, taking a sip to hide my smile.
“I see,” he said, his voice just a tad tighter than I’d heard it before.
But he made no other comment as he hunted around for the ingredients he needed.
I wondered if I would wake up in the middle of the night to see him awake and putting things back to rights because he couldn’t sleep knowing what a mess things were.
“What are you making?” I asked when he seemed more comfortable with the silence than I was.
“Braciole.”
“I don’t know what that is,” I admitted.
“It’s an Italian-style roulade.” At my raised brows, he gave me a little smile. “A rolled and stuffed meat. This is pork flank with prosciutto, panko, parmesan, and pecorino with a garlicky tomato sauce. And a side of pasta,” he said, waving to the box of orzo. “Since you’re such a fan of carbs.”
