Page 121 of One Wrong Move

I hand him a large knife and point to the center island. “Go crazy.”

“All these vegetables?”

“All of them. In tiny cubes.”

He hums but does exactly as I’ve asked. Soon, the steady sound of his chopping fills the room, and I set about measuring out the pasta. I feel too hot, still, even though the sun is mostly gone and the night is quickly approaching. My skin feels sticky to the touch.

“I can’t believe,” he says like he’d read my mind, “that the previous owner didn’t put in AC when they renovated.”

“It’s not a big thing in the UK, as I understand.”

“No. But I should have predicted this.” He looks across at me, a crooked smile on his face. “You can cook in less clothes, you know. I wouldn’t mind.”

I hold up a long piece of dry linguine in his direction. “That would violate all kinds of health and safety regulations.”

“It’s private property. None exist.” His eyes glitter. “Imagine how hot you’d look in nothing but an apron… and how much cooler you’d feel.”

“I think that goes for you, too, buddy,” I say.

Both eyebrows shoot up. “Buddy?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling now, also. “Got a problem with that? Buddy.”

“Not at all, champ.”

I chuckle. “Okay, that one was awful. Old sport.”

Nate reaches for a zucchini and starts hacking away at it. His smile is lighting up his face, and my chest feels warm, my cheeks are aching. It’s been this way for the past two days, since the movie premiere.

Since the night he slept in my bed… as he did again last night.

But that’s it. Nothing more than sleeping in one bed. Even if the need for more is there, ever-present, like a fire smoldering beneath the surface. It punctuates every one of our interactions. Leaves me giddy and my heart racing.

I know what this is, I know exactly what this emotion is, and I can’t find it in myself to regret it.

“Old sport,” he repeats. “Okay, that was a good one. I’ll raise you… pal.”

I laugh in surprise as I put the pasta into the water. “Pal? I haven’t heard that one in a long time, bro.”

“Bro?” he repeats. “I hate?—”

My phone rings, and the sound cuts through the kitchen. I turn the water for the linguine down and reach for the device lying on the kitchen island. My mom mentioned that she’d call again on her break, which would be my evening.

“One second,” I tell Nate, and hit the answer button before checking who it is.

“Hey, Harper.”

Everything in me freezes at the sound of Dean’s voice on the other end of the line. It feels too close. Like he’s standing right beside me.

“Glad I got a hold of you. Is it evening over there?”

I can’t look at Nate. “Yes. I’m cooking dinner.”

“Whatcha making?”

I swallow. “Linguine. What’s happened?”

“Do I need a reason to call you?” he asks easily. “Don’t answer that, actually. I spoke to the caterers today.”

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