We just stand there for a second, like neither of us knows what happens next.
Do I take it to the spare room? To mine? Is there a guidebook for this fake-marriage thing?
She leans in, rises onto her toes, and kisses me. And with that one kiss, she strips away every bit of doubt I had left.
"I wasn’t sure, you know," I mumble against her lips, before kissing her back.
"About what?" she murmurs, pressing closer, her body flush against mine.
"If you were going to sleep in my bed with me tonight or the spare room, but I’ve just made an executive decision. This bag," I say, patting the front of it, "is coming with me. If you decide to follow, just know I plan to ravish you—worship you—in ways I haven’t had the chance to do since our wedding night."
I scoop her up in my arms just like I did in Vegas when she was drunk, lugging her bag behind me. She nuzzles against my chest, giggling with her arms looped around my neck.
"I really would love nothing more than to focus on you worshiping my body tonight, butwhatis that smell?" she asks, patting me on the arm to put her down as we make it to the kitchen.
"God, I know. I bet it tastes as bad as it smells." I sniff, shaking my head in embarrassment.
"You cooked for me?" she says, a flirty smile on her lips.
"I attempted to, yes. But it was a fail."
"Is it ready? I’m starving, and I want to try…whatever it is. I can’t pick it from the smell alone. Is it fish of some sort?" She opens my oven, mitt on her hand, and pulls out the dish as though this is where we eat dinner together every night. She’s so comfortable here, it almost makes me wish thiswereour constant routine.
"Why don’t we just go out for dinner? I can call upLorenzo’sand we can have Italian," I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket, ready to dial.
She watches me for a moment, soft laughter rumbling through her chest. "I’m too tired to leave. I kind of just want to stay home, eat whatever it is you’ve cooked, and maybe watch a movie or something. If that’s alright?"
Home.
She called my placehome.
I feel like an idiot. I knew she was tired, and still asked the question, still told her I wanted to devour her.
"Of course. But I cannot promise you this is going to taste good at all," I say, opening the top drawer to fetch us a fork each.
"What is it supposed to be?" she asks, licking her lips, getting ready to taste.
"It’s a Portuguese dish called Bacalhau à Brás. Mostly cod—hence the fish smell—with potatoes."
"Thank you." She kisses my cheek. "I’m sure I’m going to love it."
She digs her fork into the dish, lifts it to her mouth, gives it a quick sniff, then blows to cool it. One second later, she shoves the fork in and chews.
Then stops.
Her eyes flick to mine.
And just like that, she bolts to the bin, flips the lid, and spits it out.
"Sorry, but that was not good."
"It’s okay. I never had high hopes for it, anyway."
She downs half a glass of water like she’s been lost in the desert.
"You tried," she manages with a cough.
"I did. But at least I know to never try again."
