I glance past him into the house, catching a glimpse of the kitchen. The lights are on and something is simmering on the stove, the faint scent of garlic drifting out into the night. It smells really good.
“You do realize this is becoming a habit, right?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Could be worse habits though, right?”
I narrow my eyes playfully. “Debatable.”
He leads me up the front steps, holding the door open because I’m nothing if not also predictable. “Fine,” I say. “But if it’s terrible, I’m leaving.”
“It’s not terrible.”
“You sound confident.”
“I am.”
“That’s suspicious.”
He laughs softly as I step inside. The kitchen is warm. Not just temperature—though that too—but the kind of warmth that settles under your skin like a comforting blanket. I almost hate how quickly my shoulders relax the second I walk in. Like my body recognizes something my brain is still trying to fight.
“What are we making?” I ask, setting my bag on the counter.
“We?” He glances over his shoulder at me, one brow lifting slightly.
“Yes,we,” I insist, shrugging off my jacket. “I’m not just going to stand here and watch you cook like some kind of kitchen voyeur.”
His smile widens as he hands me a wooden spoon. “In that case, stir this while I finish chopping.”
I peer into the pot—a rich, fragrant sauce bubbling away—and begin stirring slowly. The domesticity of the moment should make me uncomfortable, but somehow it doesn’t. It feels…natural. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“Red or white?” I turn my head to see Shepherd holding two bottles of wine.
“Uh, I know I should say red, but I’m going to say white.”
“Perfect choice,” Shepherd says with a smile, setting the red bottle aside and reaching for a corkscrew. “This one’s a little sweeter, which will balance out the spice in the sauce.”
I continue stirring, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex as he works the corkscrew into the cork. It’s ridiculous how something so mundane can be so distracting when he does it.
“So, what exactly are we making?” I ask, focusing back on the pot.
“Pasta arrabbiata,” he says, the Italian rolling off his tongue with surprising ease. “My grandmother’s recipe.”
“You cook your grandmother’s recipes?” The question slipsout before I can stop it, tinged with more surprise than I intended.
He pauses, glancing at me with those warm hazel eyes. “Why do you say it like that’s weird?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Just doesn’t seem like something a professional football player would do.”
“You mean something a man would do?” he challenges, but his tone remains light, teasing.
“No, I—” I start, then stop myself. “Okay, maybe a little of both. Though I’d argue being a quarterback doesn’t automatically make you ‘masculine’ in the traditional sense.” I pause, realizing how that might sound. “Not that you’re not masculine. You’re very…” My eyes inadvertently drop to his forearms again, watching a vein run along his skin as he pours the wine. “…masculine.”
Oh my God. Did I just say that out loud?
Heat creeps up my neck as Shepherd hands me a glass, his fingers brushing mine in a way that sends little electric pulses straight up my arm. His lips quirk upward, and there’s something knowing in his eyes that makes my stomach flip.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, his voice dropping just slightly lower.
“It was meant as an observation,” I counter, taking a sip of wine to hide whatever my face is doing. The wine is perfect. Crisp and light with just a hint of sweetness.
