I watch the muscles in his back tense and shift as he dumps the pasta into the colander and turns on the water. “The trick is to cool the pasta immediately.”
I can’t stop admiring him when he can’t see me. It’s as if my eyes have a mind of their own. His dark blond hair is mussed from sleep, all rumpled and unfurled. Tattoos spill over his skin as though he’s covered his scars in ink. The shape of him is all sharp edges and strength. His classic V torso, the narrow waist disappearing into his sweatpants, the waistband of his boxer briefs taunting me just above them. He’s taller than any man I’ve dated, broader too, built like he could pick me up with one hand, and it would be nothing.
Foster turns before I can look away, and I don’t have time to hide the way I’m looking at him. He freezes with the colander suspended midair, his gaze colliding with mine. The desire between us narrows into something sharp and tight.
He clears his throat, jaw flexing, as though he’s fighting the pull between us as much as I am. I drop my gaze, drag a breath into my lungs, and grip the edge of the counter until my fingers ache.
I don’t remember the last time I wanted a man as badly as I do him.
“This whole not sleeping with people thing getting to you?” He pours the noodles into the pan. For someone who hates talking about himself, he sure is eager to address the elephant in the room.
“I’m perfectly fine. Believe me, you’ll break that rule before me. Just like the clothing rule.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I won’t.” He sounds so sure.
I figure we need a distraction because this line of conversation is not a road we need to venture down. “Time for my question. What are you most afraid of?”
“In regard to the baby?” He coats the pasta with the cheese mixture. His noodle dish is one of those you’d crave during a snowstorm, tucked under blankets and binge-watching a series.
“Yes.” I chuckle.
He shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure I’m not giving more information than necessary.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure this is killing you.”
He pulls down a bowl and scoops some of the noodles and sauce into it, then sprinkles some parmesan on top. “Well… I’m scared… of becoming my father.”
I resist the urge to jump off the counter and hug him because I know any show of sympathy would stop him from telling me whatever he’s about to.
“His fatherly instincts never kicked in, and if mine don’t either, I’m stuck with one example of fatherhood and…” He never looks up as he walks over.
I hold out my hands, ready for the bowl, but he stops in front of my knees and taps the drawer handle with two fingers. When I open my legs, he slides the drawer out, jaw tight like it was a second ago, grabs a fork, and shuts it again. Before I can close my legs, he steps between them.
He never hands me the bowl. Instead, he twirls the noodles, sauce dripping, and holds the fork out to me.
Our eyes catch, but this time, they don’t let go. “And being like my father isn’t an option for me.”
I open my mouth, and he feeds me the noodles. As my lips close around the fork and he slides it out, I want to ditch the bowl and drag him in by the waistband. But the flavor hits—rich, garlicky, stupidly good—and I make a sound I can’t swallow fast enough.
He sets the bowl beside my hip as if nothing happened and goes back to his water, the picture of calm confidence. It’s as though he doesn’t realize he’s thrown gasoline on the match that was already lit.
“Oh my god, this is so good. How?” I mumble around my food, needing the intimacy in the room to dissipate quickly.
He busies himself getting a bowl for himself, not answering me right away. I almost fill the space with another compliment, but then his gaze meets mine.
“Turns out, even teenagers get sick of fast food when it’s every damn day, so I started looking up recipes and winging it. I first made it with those little parmesan packets from the pizza places. I lived with my dad, and he worked a lot. If he wasn’t working, he was with me at baseball. Eventually I took the money I’d blow on drive-thrus and went to the grocery store instead. So… there you go. Your first fun Foster fact.”
“Well, thank you. I have a feeling our little one is going to grow up begging you to make this dish for them.”
A hint of a smile lifts his lips, and he hops up on the counter opposite me. “I hope so.”
“I know so.”
“Same goes with you. We’re gonna make this work, Callie.”
My first instinct is to make a joke. To deflect and keep everything light. But the way he sounds so sure and confident… it’s odd, but I believe him.
Regardless, it’s still scary as hell.
