Page 45 of The Shadows We Keep

“Do you want me to go?” Her taunting tone’s alluring. If it were up to me, I’d have her on the bed, laid on her back, screaming my name in the next thirty seconds. I rein in my need to be between her thighs and drop a sweet kiss to her forehead before pulling away and walking to the dresser.

“Here, put this on.” I fling my arm back, a threadbare tee shirt held out in her direction. She quickly pulls it over her head. It might cover her body, but it does nothing to tame the sensuality she exudes. Her hands pull down on the hem, trying to stretch the material a little longer, but it bounces back as soon as it slips through her fingers.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, sweetness.” I smile and shake my head, turning to leave the room.

Her light footsteps pad down the hall, following close behind. I quickly pull out the only ingredients I can find to whip up a late dinner.

“He cooks? I thought it was a fluke last time.”

“Man’s got to eat.” I deadpan.

“Well then, what are you making me?” Her eyes shift around me. “For fourth meal?” Her chuckle fills the room and lightens the mood.

“Please tell me you’re not one of those girls who says she’s gluten free, even though she’s not.”

She points to her chest. “Foster kid, remember? I’ll eat whatever you serve up.”

Good.

“Do me a favor: open that cabinet to my right, and on the top, pull out the bag of pasta.”

“Where are your pots?” she asks.

I nudge my foot to my bottom left. While she’s digging through to find the container, I finish chopping the onions, garlic, and basil. The can of whole peeled tomatoes sits in a bowl ready for squeezing before they’re added in with the aromatics.

“Want to get a little dirty?” I tease over my shoulder.

Her hip bumps against me and I take her in. She’s light on her feet, a small content smile gracing her lips. She looks good in my shirt, in my kitchen, barefoot, and playful.

“Tell me what you need, boss,” she says.

I shift her in front of me, caging her in with my arms against the counter. Grabbing her hands, I shove them into the bowl of tomatoes, and she rears back against my chest, not expecting it. When I fist my hands around hers, forcing her to squeeze, she shivers.

“Gross, that feels nasty.” She laughs, looking up at me over her shoulder. I can’t resist and drop a kiss to her nose.

“Make sure you get them all. Then, we’ll add them to the pan.” Letting go of her hands, I pull mine free of the mess and wash them quickly, checking the water for a boil. Pinching the salt from a small bowl on the counter, I season the water and dump the bag of pasta in, setting a timer for five minutes.

“Done.” She perks up.

“Add it in slowly and stir.” She does as I ask, stealing a wooden spoon from the jar on the counter.

“Where’d you learn to cook?”

I take in a deep breath. “I’d love to say it was from spending time with my grandmother as she passed down generations of family recipes, but that’s not the case. A year ago, I wouldn’t have even been able to make you pasta and canned sauced.” I let out a sad snicker. “The truth is, after about two months of nothing but take out, even in a city like New York, I was over it. So, I googled the top ten easiest meals to make.”

Her eyes swing in my direction, big as saucers. “You’re kidding. You taught yourself how to make something that uses…” she picks up the bunch of green herbs from the counter and shakes it in my face, “Whatever this is.”

“Basil.” I snatch it from her grip. “Not at first, but after a few months, I broadened my horizons. Especially once I found the Saturday farmer’s market a couple of blocks over at Westbrook Park.”

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises today?” Her cheeks flush a hypnotizing shade of pink, but she shifts quickly, shielding it from me. “And a walking contradiction, to boot.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” I question.

She spins quickly on her heels, her hand flying up and down in my direction. “Look at you,” she pauses, “you’re the poster child for every mother’s nightmare. Yet you cook with fresh ingredients from the farmer’s market. You obviously have money.” Her hand goes flying again as if to make her point. “But you don’t seem to work. And...” There’s something else on the tip of her tongue, but she stalls.

“And?” I tease.

Her fingers twist in the hem of my shirt—an endearing nervous tick.

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