I turn toward the kitchen because if I keep standing here in the living room watching his shoulders move, I’m going to forget every rule I ever even considered holding him to.
He moves quietly, efficiently, sliding the plates into the sink, running water, wiping the counter like he’s done this a thousand times and isn’t at all aware that I’m unraveling behind him one thread at a time.
I open the fridge first, pretending I’m just a woman looking for dessert and not a woman looking for an excuse.
There’s a carton of strawberries tucked in the back—I asked Antonio to include them on the grocery list because, apparently, I’m pretending to be the kind of person who snacks on fruit instead of eating ice cream right out of the carton when he’s around.
I smile wickedly when I see the can of whipped cream.
My mind does a slow, sinful slide into possibility.
Berries. Whipped cream.
I shut the fridge a little too hard.
I pull out a colander and pour the strawberries into it.
“Could you rinse these?” I ask Antonio, setting it on the counter next to him.
“Sure,” he says, completely oblivious to the plan forming.
I open the cabinet and search all the way in the back, where I generally keep it so I’m not tempted to eat it by the spoonful.
My fingers close around the white lid, and I suppress my little dance of joy.
Nutella.
“Here you go,” Antonio says.
I turn back to grab the strawberries and see Antonio moving around my kitchen like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here.
He does.
The thought is so crazy, I almost forget how to breathe.
I clear my throat. “Do you have any allergies?” I call, aiming for casual.
He pauses, then his voice, low and amused. “No.”
“Good,” I say, and my tone comes out too smooth.
I dry the strawberries and arrange them on a plate. Then, using a spoon, I drizzle the Nutella over them.
I set the plate down on the island and pick up the whipped cream like it’s just… whipped cream.
It isn’t.
I feel Antonio’s attention shift before I even look up. The water in the sink is off, the dishes done. The towel in his hand stills for a beat, his eyes are on the plate, then on the can, then on me.
His throat works once.
“Dessert,” I say, voice light. Too light.
“Mmm,” he replies, and it’s not an answer so much as a sound. His gaze drifts to my mouth and lingers like he’s testing his own restraint.
I pop the cap off the whipped cream with a soft click that feels almost obscene in the quiet.
Antonio’s voice is a little rough. “You’re enjoying this.”
