Page 66 of Lost in the Moonlight

“So, if I’d let you make me dinner, would it have been mac and cheese?” I asked, biting my lip to keep from smiling.

He elbowed my arm playfully. “Nothing wrong with mac and cheese. The White House chef makes one that melts in your mouth. But no. I’d planned on spaghetti.”

“With that garlic-laden jarred sauce you picked up that is nothing like authentic marinara?”

He snickered before saying, “This is very unexpected.”

“What?” I wiped my face with a napkin, wondering if I had something on it.

“You’re a food snob. I would never have expected you to be snobbish about anything, and yet, there it is.”

His smile was so contagious I couldn’t help but return it. “Garlic is overrated. There’s a time and place for it, but the way most American’s slather it around, all it does is hide the real flavors.”

“Did you earn that snobbery degree in culinary school?”

I wasn’t the least bit offended because there was no real jab in his words. It was all delightful tease. “My dad was a pretty decent chef for having no formal experience. He liked playing with food, and I learned a lot from him before…” I shrugged. “When we moved, Mom’s time was absorbed with working andstudying for her teaching credential, and the Marshals had decided I should finish high school online, which was fine by me, so I was pretty much in the cottage twenty-four seven. I started watching all these food shows, especially the competitions, and then I began experimenting with different recipes, and it helped get me through. When I started at Bonnin, I got a job with Hector and learned more.”

“You went to Bonnin?” he asked.

“I dropped out in the spring semester of my junior year.”

“How’d your mom take it?”

I played with a potato chip, crumbling it. “Honestly, Mom understood. That semester was Danny and Roci’s trial, and I had to go back and testify. I wasn’t sleeping well and couldn’t concentrate on my classes. We were both terrified it was the fatal familial insomnia rather than just nerves and terror.”

Lincoln pushed his plate away and turned in his seat so his knees banged into my thigh. Heat and desire burst through me in a sudden, fiery crescendo.

“I can’t imagine. That must have been terrifying to face them in court. I didn’t have the pleasure of seeing the man who shot Lyrica declared guilty, because he copped a plea.”

“What about the truck driver who killed Sienna?”

“He died in the wreck too. Hard to take your anger out on a dead guy.”

My heart bled for him. For me. For the things we couldn’t change. “On the plane ride back from Chicago, I had this moment of clarity about living as much as I could regardless of being in witness protection and having the unknown of the FFI hanging on me. I took out the pamphlet Hector had given me for the culinary institute and talked it over with Mom. She agreed that life was too short to piddle around with things that didn’tmake me feel alive. If college wasn’t for me, she was okay with that.”

“She’s a good mom,” he said softly.

“The very, very best. I just want her to be happy, you know? To get back some of the joy I always saw in her eyes when she was with my dad. She just accepted a date with Hector today. They’re adorable together…” That damn lump came back, and I refused to let it grow, so I changed the subject back to him. “Did your parents support you and your art? Is that what you studied in college?”

He laughed, leaned in, and kissed me on the tip of my nose in a way that made my breath disappear. “It’s so cute that you don’t actually know anything about me.”

I huffed. “Sorry I didn’t major in Lincoln Matherton at school.”

His lips quirked upward more. “I got a master’s in Art History and played around with getting my doctorate, but opening the gallery took precedence.” The smile he’d had disappeared. “It was important, not just to me but to Sienna and her family.”

His eyes traveled across the room and stayed there, as if watching something—someone—in the same way he had earlier. A chill went up my back that I couldn’t explain. But the simple fact his light had faded made me tease instead of offering more condolences.

“Overachiever.” I pushed at his arm just like he had mine. He chuckled.

I wanted to kiss him. I wanted that deep laugh to turn into the passionate groan he’d let out while we’d devoured each other. Instead, I got up from the table, taking our plates with me to the sink.

He sat, watching me while I cleaned up, before I turned back to the flour I’d spread on the counter and the covered pastry dough waiting for me. He rose and came to stand across the island, watching me as I worked.

When I looked up, his expression was soft and gentle, swimming with an emotion I couldn’t possibly name.

“What?” I asked.

“You look really good here. In my house. In my kitchen.” The words were deep and guttural. The intensity of his eyes was almost too much. I looked down at the dough I was kneading way too hard. The pastry would be tough. “It’s like I designed it for you. The sunshiny mood fits you way better than it ever fit me.”

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