Page 62 of Falling for Autumn Again

It’s a bad combo.

A combo that makes me grateful I have hardwood floors.

With his final tug and my surrender, the perfect pasta storm isreleased into the air and all over Ezra. Pasta, red sauce, chicken, and that beautiful sprig of cilantro all end up on the man in front of me. That pretty blue sweater is now stained forever with marinara. My beautiful homemade pasta slides down his front and over his left pant leg.

I slap a hand over my mouth.

“Usually, I prefer to eat my dinner,” he says, always even-tempered.

“I’m—” I stop myself from apologizing. I don’t want to apologize to him. And he’s the one who tugged. I spent an hour cooking—for him. “You can clean up in the bathroom.” I step closer, not meaning to, and instantly the warmth of his body and the scent of his cologne fills my senses.

I clear my throat, snag the one piece of fettuccini that's hanging from his head, and then point down the hall to my one and only bathroom.

“I’m sorry, Autumn.” He peers down at the floor where the rest of his pasta has decided to take up residence.

I blow a huff through my lips. “It’s fine. Just go wash up. I’ve got this.”

Grabbing a few supplies, I hurry back into the living room and clean up the mess on the floor. When everything is back in order, I wash my hands and carefully cut my meal in half—even my lone sprig of cilantro. I place half of my pasta, meat, and veggies on a new plate and wipe at the excess sauce streaking over my white dinner plate.

It’s still pretty. Just small.

I set the dishes on the table, across from one another, not side by side. I push Ezra’s farther onto the table, making sure he doesn’t dump this one too.

I’m sitting, deciding if I should offer him help or just eat without him, when I hear the bathroom door open.

Strangely, his mess has calmed the nerves playing ping-ponginside my body. Maybe I can get through this night without hyperventilating.

And then the man walks into my kitchen.

Shirtless.

I choke, though I haven’t eaten anything yet. “Where are your clothes?” I cough out.

“My sweater is in the sink. I’m hoping the sauce will come out if I soak it.”

I shield my eyes from his tanned abs as if they were a spotlight directly in my eyes. When did Ezra gain a six-pack? Wasn’t he busy studying, dating, and then working?

“The stain is there for life! It’s marinara, man! Your sweater is a goner! Now, go get dressed!” I peer up. Because maybe Ezra spilled something in here too and it ended up on the ceiling.

Ezra laughs. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

I force my eyes to his, but I can’t unsee that bare chest. It doesn’t matter that I’m super gluing my gaze to those dumb hazel eyes of his. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

“Autumn,” he says, walking closer. “You’ve seen me without a shirt on before.”

“Not in a while! And I’d rather you not walk aroundmyhouse like you’re at a frat party.” I cross my arms and pierce those eyes… because if I stare long and hard enough at his face, my peripheral vision will learn to behave.

“Andyouknow what’s happening at frat parties?”

I huff, my blood starting to boil. He knows I don’t. “Maybe I didn’t go to a big fancy college like you, but I have Hulu.”

“I see. Well, my sweater is wet. So, I’m not putting it back on. You’re going to have to live with it.” His lips part into a grin and his eyes fall to my mouth.

Oh, no you don’t, mister. You are not allowed to look at my mouth.

I press my full lips in on one another and then peer down atmy shoes. “Surely you have a shirt back at your rental. Just go get one.”

“I do. But I’m comfortable. And hungry.”

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