Just kittens curled inside their shared crate, passed out like a pair of drunken sailors.
In the kitchen, Cami stands at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan.
Her hair’s piled on top of her head, messier than four hours ago, a few loose strands curling near her neck.
My gaze trails over long legs, smooth skin, and those damn jean shorts hugging her ass like a second skin.
I blink hard, forcing my focus off her and onto a colander full of pasta and plates already sitting on Grandma’s antique table.
Cami doesn’t look surprised when she turns, her gaze landing on me.
“You’re just in time for dinner.” She cups the wooden spoon in her palm toward me. “Want a taste?”
Fuck me.Of course I want a taste.
And, yes, I’m fully aware she’s not offeringthat, but my mind darts there anyway.
“That can’t be real food?” I lean against the door frame, arms folded, pretending herwant a tastequestion didn’t throw me off. “Seems practically vintage after two nights of takeout.”
She chuckles. “Well, you’ve kept those kitties alive two nights straight. Dinner’s your reward, along with me handling tonight’s graveyard shift.”
If dinner’s my reward, fine. But the woman dishing it up—gorgeous and stirring more than just sauce—has me bracing for trouble.
“Far be it from me to turn down a reward.” I push off the door frame and step in close, my fingers grazing hers as I reach for the spoon. That single touch short-circuits my brain more than any sauce could. “It’s pretty damn good.”
“Careful,” she says, brows raised. “You’re gonna make me think you might be easy to impress.”
Taking a slow step back, I try not to read into the casual way she just smiled up at me, try to ignore the spark still humming in my fingers.
She’s flirting, and I need to get a grip.Label this what it is: a neighborly, co-parenting meal. I’m not about to wreck the fragile rhythm we’ve found by fixating on her mouth. Or her legs—which my mind cast in a reckless fantasy I’ve no business entertaining.
It’s best to shift my attention to what’s missing from Grandma’s table, treating forks and napkins like mission-critical tasks. Anything that’ll keep my hands busy and my sex-starved thoughts in check.
Once I finally sit down, we’re across from each other, plates full, steam curling in the quiet space between us.
Cami twirls pasta on her fork, then glances toward the counter.
“Got any wine?” Her tone is casual, but there’s a gleam in her eyes.
“There’s some red in the cupboard.” I stand to grab it, then pause, a smug smile pulling my lips. “You even old enough to drink?”
We’d already had the age talk a couple of nights ago—she’s twenty-four, I’m thirty-five—but I still like to poke the bear, give her shit about it.
She smirks. “I told you the other night. I’m twenty-four. Three and a half months ago.”
“Barely old enough to rent a car,” I shoot back, a grin tugging at my lips.
“Oh, please. You probably still own CDs,” she fires back, eyes dancing.
“Vinyl,” I deadpan.
“Figures.” Her grin is triumphant and priceless all at once. “Yet somehow, I’m the one who whipped up this lavish, pantry-inspired masterpiece.”
We both laugh, and just like that, tension breaks, softened by sarcasm and a comfortable spark that hasn’t stopped crackling between us.
After grabbing the bottle of red and two glasses, I pour a generous splash into each, then slide back into my seat across from hers.
Late-afternoon sun has dipped low, casting an amber glow through Grandma’s old lace curtains I’ve been meaning to replace. Light catches on Cami’s hair as she twirls another bite of pasta, gold flickering through dark waves. For a second, I forget to breathe, caught off guard by how beautiful she looks doing something so ordinary.
