“You know,” I murmur, “if you ever want help fact-checking some of these scenes…”
She huffs. “No, thank you. And if Idoneed someone, I know exactly whonotto call.”
Well.Ouch.
***
I’m stirring a pan of butter and garlic like my life depends on it.
Stress-cooking wasn’t always my thing. I used to handle pressure with whiskey, women, and regrettable tattoos. But these days? I julienne vegetables like a man possessed.
The kitchen smells like rosemary and delicious carbs.
I toss in the pasta and try not to think about the fact that Olive Hart is sleeping one hallway away from mine. In my house. In my world.
Just as I’m getting ready to plate everything—I hear her.
Barefoot. Quiet.
I turn just as she wanders into the kitchen, wearing a T-shirt that saysReading Is Sexyand shorts that really shouldn’t qualify as pajamas.
Her hair’s a little messy. Her mouth curves in a surprised smile when she sees me.
“You really do cook?” she asks, like she can’t quite believe it.
I nod. “Helps me relax.”
She eyes the pan. “Fancy.”
“You want some?” I ask.
“I mean,” she says, walking over and plucking a piece of pancetta from the plate like she lives here, “it would be rude not to.”
She hops onto a stool, legs crossed, completely unfazed.
My kitchen. My house. My life. And somehow,sheowns the moment.
“You always cook like you’re filming a cooking show?” she asks, watching me plate with far too much interest in my knife skills.
“Only when I’m trying to make a good second impression on my future wife.”
She scoffs. “You messed up pretty badly the first time, I’ll admit.” Then she grins. “Lucky for you—this is objectively incredible.”
I smirk, trying to play it cool even as my heart pounds like a bass drum behind my ribs. “I also do a killer risotto,” I say—then immediately regret using the wordkillerwhile staring at her lips.
She takes another bite, moans softly, then freezes. “Oh my god. I sound like the heroine in one of my romance novels.”
I take a sip of water. I wish it were cold. I wish it could put out the fire under my skin.
I raise a brow. “Tell me: You ever read anything without shirtless men or innuendo in the title?”
She blushes. Beautifully. But she holds my gaze when she says: “Nope.”
I grin. “What are you reading right now, for example? Billionaire with a secret dungeon? Grumpy pirate with a heart of gold?”
“Single dad who bakes muffins and gives oral like it’s his job,” she says, deadpan.
I cough. “Wow. Okay.”
