“I haven’t exactly given it much thought.”
“Pick something. If you knew the world was ending tomorrow, what would you want to eat tonight?”
“Pasta, obviously.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t just say that because it’s what I’m making. What would you want to eat? What would you want to remember?”
He stepped toward me, turning my body toward his. “This, Ariana,” he said softly, curving toward me. “This is what I want to remember. You’re what I want to remember.”
I sighed, rising onto my toes, my mouth a breath from his. “You’re what I want to remember, too,” I managed to say through the heaviness in my throat. “This moment. This memory.”
“You will.” He pushed a tendril of hair out of my eyes. “And when this is all over, we’ll have the rest of our lives to make more memories.”
“I like the sound of that,” I replied as his mouth brushed mine.
I’d always appreciated his kisses, but I needed this one. Not just for the connection, but to hide my unease over the prospect of never making any more memories with Henry. I wanted to. God, I wanted that more than anything. Especially now that I finally had something to live for again.
More than I thought I ever would.
But I couldn’t ignore that ever-present voice in my head. The same one I’d ignored when I first met Victor.
But this time, it was even louder. More ominous. More…dangerous.
“What can I help you with?” Henry asked once he tore his lips from mine.
“You don’t have to help. I don’t mind cooking.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “I want to. Want to make memories with you. Plus, it’ll keep my mind off…everything.”
I understood that. Considering it was the reason I’d decided to make homemade pasta in the first place.
“I could use your muscle to help roll out this dough.”
“Muscle, I have.”
I raked my gaze along his broad physique. “I’ve noticed.”
“Is that right?” He arched a single brow.
I inched closer still, our bodies less than a whisper away. “You’re impossible not to notice.” I lifted onto my toes again. But before Henry could touch his lips to mine, I stepped back and grabbed the rolling pin. “Now use those muscles and start rolling that dough.”
I scooped a bit of flour and poured it over the mat on the counter.
“Why do I feel like you’re just using me for my body?”
I chewed on my bottom lip. “Because I am.” I slapped his ass. “Now roll out the dough.”
Over the next hour, things felt…normal. I showed Henry how to roll out the dough to get it thin enough to feed into the pasta maker. I told him about Sunday dinners at my nonna’s house. How she’d roll out sheets and sheets of dough just like this. And despite his difficult childhood, he shared more about his mom and brother.
For a short while, I stopped worrying about what the future held. Instead, I allowed myself to feel hopeful about this kind of future with Henry. Where I’d spend my days in the garden before cooking dinner after a long day of work. Or maybe he’d cook for me. I didn’t care as long as we were together.
But when Blake hobbled into the kitchen with a morose expression on his face, I knew in a heartbeat he wasn’t here to ask if dinner was ready.
“What is it?” Henry asked, his tone clipped.
“We got a response with a drop location and a time.”
Henry’s spine stiffened as he placed an encouraging hand on my lower back. “When and where?”
