I glance down at my plate. Tagliatelle, golden and soft, sits beneath a silky sheen of butter, garlic, and sautéed mushrooms, with shavings of parmesan melting into the heat. I lift my fork, then pause. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
He tilts his head slightly. “You said once that pasta is the only thing you trust after a bad day.”
I frown, trying to place it. “When did I say that?”
“Holiday party. One of the interns spilled cider on his tie. You said carbs don’t lie, but people do.”
My face warms, because I barely remember the comment and I certainly didn’t think he was listening.
“I remember what matters,” he adds.
The first bite is rich and light at the same time. The noodles are handmade, and the flavor lingers in a way I didn’t expect. I take a second bite and chew slowly, then glance up to find him watching me again.
“Do you cook?”
“When it matters,” he answers, his mouth curving slightly. “Usually after.”
A warmth slides up my neck and reddens my whole face. I have to break eye-contact just to make sure I’m still holding my own.
For a while, we eat without talking. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, and that somehow makes it worse. It’s intimate, familiar even. I focus on the food, but my mind keeps drifting back to the texts, the voice in my ear, and the way his words still echo in my skin.
He refills my glass and watches me over the rim of his own. “You keep flinching every time I look at you.”
“I don’t,” I say automatically, but I do.
“You still think this is a game?”
“I think it’s dangerous.”
“Only if you pretend not to want it.”
I set my fork down and meet his gaze. “You think because I responded, that means I don’t have doubts?”
“No,” he says, “I think you’re allowed to have both.”
The wind shifts slightly, and I cross my arms to hold in the warmth I’m losing. He sees it and stands slowly.
“Come with me.” He holds out his hand.
I slide mine into his before I can overthink it. His fingers wrap around mine, and they’re solid, warm, absolutely unfair. My whole palm disappears inside his. It’s not just the size, it’s the way he holds me like it means something.
He leads, and I follow, because I can’tnot. Walking beside him makes the difference feel even more obscene—his long strides, his broad shoulders, the way I have to tilt my head just to meet his eyes. At five feet eight, I’m not short. He’s just a skyscraper of a man, and that plays into every fantasy I’ve ever had about him.
I swear I feel it low and stupidly deep in my belly when his thumb brushes over mine. I follow him to the far edge of the terrace, where the glass curves and the view stretches farther than I can process. It’s remote and cold, but I don’t feel either of those things.
“You hate compliments,” he remarks.
I glance at him. “Not exactly. I’m just careful about how I handle them.”
“Why?”
“Because most of the time, they’re offered like favors. Like I should be grateful someone noticed something I didn’t ask them to look at.”
He nods, slowly. “You’ve been carrying that weight for a long time.”
“It’s not weight.” I shake my head, then pause. “No, actually—it is. It’s every side comment about my thighs and every sales rack that stops at a size eight and every person who told me I’d be pretty if I just tried a little harder.”
His voice is quiet. “You don’t need to try. You already are.”
