Page 34 of Rockland

He turns around and when his eyes meet mine, there’s a flutter in my chest—those pesky feelings making their appearance. He looks so at home in his own skin, in my kitchen. His bicep flexes as he slides the omelet onto a plate. He returns the pan to the stovetop to cool. Neatly slices the omelet into two pieces and puts one half on a waiting plate. Places the plate before me and slides a fork next to it.

It smells amazing. I feel a rumble in my stomach—my nonexistent appetite making an appearance. “I don’t normally eat breakfast,” I say.

A dark brow rises, and he gives me that look. “You do now.”

I obediently take a bite. The veggies are crisp, the eggs creamy. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“Just picked it up. Being a bachelor for so long, you figure things out.”

Curiosity rises in me, my chest tightening. Trying to keep my tone light, teasing, I say, “You don’t have women knocking each other over to cook for you?”

He ignores my question. Takes a sip of his freshly squeezed orange juice. Gives me a look that tells me that subject is not up for discussion. Pierces a bite of food with his fork and says, “You going into the office today?”

Annoyed by his not answering my question about other women, I say, “No. I dress like this to mow the lawn.”

The look makes a reappearance. “Tone.”

I swallow my food, a lump forming in my throat. Does he have women knocking themselves over to cook for him? “Yes. I’m going in. I went in Thursday, before you got into town. And I’ve promised to be there every weekday. Normal time. Normal schedule.”

“Good girl. Routine is good for you.”

Funny what those two little words, good girl, do to my body. I say, “What will you be doing while you’re here?”

He shrugs. “Dirty work.”

“What’d you mean?”

“Just a few items some of the other brothers have put off. Unpleasant little things that don’t bother me a bit. Plus, it helps to have a face that’s unfamiliar around the city to show up and pull a few triggers.”

“Triggers not being a metaphor, I’m guessing.”

“You know that’s all I can share.”

“What time do you think…” I twist my napkin in my lap, too shy to say what I really mean.

“I’ll be home in time to cook you a nutritious dinner. We’ve got to get a little meat on those beautiful bones of yours.”

My flush deepens and I eat the rest of my meal in silence, his gaze resting on me.

The day passes so quickly, I’m shocked when I look up at my office clock and find that it’s a quarter to six.

I’ve got to get back for dinner. A smile plays on my lips as I stride home. I open the door, kick off my heels, and take in the smell of roasting garlic. I enter the kitchen and there he is. The bare tanned back of rippling muscles becoming a familiar fixture in my kitchen. I take a seat on my stool. I’m surprised to find a chilled glass of white wine waiting for me in my favorite cut crystal stemmed glass. Silly, I know, but not wanting to have him tell me it’s a fluke and take this from me, I say nothing. I pick up the glass and take a long sip. It’s cold and delicious and the bright floral bouquet bursts in my mouth.

His back still toward me, he says, “Don’t get too excited. It’s just one glass.” He turns over his shoulder to look at me. Whatever he sees on my face makes him give a chuckle. I put the glass down and he gives me that half-cocked smile. “How was your day?”

He turns back to his cooking and I say, “Great. How was yours?”

He shrugs. “Good. A bit long, but got the job done. Do you like pasta?”

“Love it. That’s probably what formed this ass of mine.”

“Then I’ll be serving pasta every night.”

His flirtatious comment warms me along with the wine. I take another sip and say, “What dish are you making?”

“Doesn’t have a name. Just a little something I came up with a few years ago. The Parish seems to love it. Angel hair spaghetti with garlic, oil, basil, sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, a little parmesan—I think that’s it.”

“It smells heavenly.” I sit, happily drinking my wine and watching him cook as the scent of the food further fills the room. I’ve never really had anyone cook for me, considering growing up my mom thought heating up a can of ravioli or throwing a pastry in the toaster was cooking. It makes me feel warm, protected, cared for.