I grin. “No, that’s exactly right.”
I hold up the lemon before cutting it into quarters.
“We’re going to toss the shrimp in the pasta quickly.” I speak as I do it. “Then a squeeze of lemon.”
“Okay,” she says. “Now what?”
“Now,” I say, sliding the pan off the heat. “We eat.”
And when she turns toward the cabinet, I let myself watch her ass as she stretches up for some plates. If I’m going to be this good, I deservesomekind of reward, don’t I?
Chapter Twenty Eight
Elsa
I sink into the couch like my body has finally decided it’s safe to exhale.
Full. Warm. Satisfied in a way that feels almost unfamiliar lately—like my nervous system doesn’t know what to do with “okay.”
Dinner was delicious. And the absurd part is that I helped make it. I didn’t ruin the garlic. I didn’t ruin the pasta. I didn’t set anything on fire. I can still feel the faint sting of pride under my ribs, like it’s trying to push its way out even though pride is not an emotion I typically indulge in.
Antonio is beside me, finishing his second plate, like this is completely normal behavior for a man who looks like he could be carved out of marble.
Both of his plates were at least twice the size of mine.
Twice.
I watch him take another bite, and my brain does that useless calculation again—where the hell does he put it?There isn’t an extra pound on him anywhere. Not an ounce. His shoulders are broad and solid, his arms are ropey with muscle even relaxed, and his waist stays narrow like his body is permanently braced for action.
My gaze drifts, uninvited, to the floor of my apartment.
The place where he was doing push-ups like gravity was merely a suggestion. The place where he started those glute bridges—slow, controlled, obscene—before my inbox lit up and everything went to hell.
He never finished his workout.
The thought slips in, quiet and wicked:
I could help him make up for it.
My pulse jumps. Heat blooms low in my belly like my body’s been waiting all day for permission.
No.
Rules, I remind myself.
Except… my rules already got blown to hell earlier when I panicked and he held me and breathed with me and put his hand on my chest like he could anchor me with touch alone.
But it didn’t count, did it?
It was a panic attack. It was survival. It was—
Antonio had said once a rule was broken, all bets were off.
And he’s been behaving himself.
Painfully.
He’s acted like my rules still matter. Like he’s still honoring them. Like he’s still being good.
