I shoot the bowl of tomatoes one last suspicious glance. “Sure. Will do. I’ll try to be back by then. Okay. I’m leaving now.”
But instead of heading out the door, I’m standing in my kitchen as my husband washes his hands like he’s performing some complicated surgery, and I’m mesmerized by how thorough he is, by the grace of his long fingers, by the muscles stretching his shirt tighter with each move of his shoulders.
This is bonkers. I shake myself as if clearing cobwebs from my skin and practically flee for my car. It’s a chickenshit escape, but I need some air that isn’t tainted by Tony Martinez and his cologne and his presence. Some space that isn’t crowded by his bulging biceps and smirk.
Outside, the air is hot and humid. Another normal June day, and I breathe it in. Deep. Centering. Calming. There. Now I’m more like myself.
Maybe his cologne has magic powers. If so, that’ll be the second thing added to my ban list. Right after kitchen boners.
As I back the car out of the driveway, I start to laugh. One thing is for sure. Being paired with Tony is the opposite of boring.
After I cruise around for a while, flitting through a boutique, and yes, stopping by the auto supply store for motor oil that I don’t need, I finally head back home after an hour and twenty minutes has passed by. My stomach is growling, so I hope Tony didn’t strike out with dinner.
The second I open the door and inhale the delicious aroma of melting cheese, sweet tomato sauce and spicy sausage, my worry dissipates. When I enter the kitchen, Tony’s wielding a metal spatula over a rectangular glass dish that sits on the stove. I head toward him to help, but he shoos me away. “Go sit down at the table. I’ve got this.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I take a seat while Tony dishes up hearty servings of steaming lasagna onto two plates and carries them over to the table. Two goblets full of ice water already sit across from each other, along with two place settings. He sets a plate in front of me with a flourish and then settles opposite me. He lifts his water glass toward me, so I mimic the motion.
“Cheers,” he says, when our glasses clink together.
“Thank you. This looks delicious.”
He takes a sip of water, then places the glass down on the table. “You don’t have to sound so startled. I had three younger sisters growing up, so I did a lot of cooking since my older sister was away at college.”
I nod and use my fork to dig in. The first bite I take is more like a nibble, but even that... whoa. So good. I quickly scoop up another bite and this time, close my eyes as the flavors practically explode in my mouth. The ricotta and sauce and mozzarella ratios are perfect, and the flavor is an amazing blend of spicy and sweet.
“You like?” Tony’s nonchalant tone is belied by the way he’s taking in my every little reaction.
Okay. I have to admit, it’s kind of cute, the way he’s so worried if I like his meal or not. “I love. This is absolutely delicious. Thank you for cooking for me. That was really sweet.”
He freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Sure. No problem.”
We sit in companionable silence for the next few seconds while I take another bite. Maybe I’d judged him too harshly.
Then, that familiar cocky grin spreads across his face and he ruins it all by opening his mouth again. “You know, any time you want to get cooking in the bedroom, too, you just let me know.”
I set my fork down after I forcefully swallow the contents in my mouth. “You just had to go there, didn’t you? Wait—don’t answer!” I hold up my hand. “How about we eat the rest in silence so I can focus on how appreciative I am of your delicious dinner versus how close I am to slapping a piece of duct tape over your mouth? And before you say it—no, not in a kinky way.”
His shoulders slump at that last bit but, surprisingly, he does as I ask. Even more—he collects the dirty dishes and silverware when I finish before I have a chance to stand up, rinses them, and puts them in the dishwasher.
Never in a million years would I have guessed Tony Martinez was damned good at domestic activities. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more capable of being a good husband than I first thought.