Page 36 of Lonely Heart

For the next minute or two, Marco and I each handled our tasks. I couldn’t speak for him, but I was aware of every movement being made in the kitchen. Luckily, I didn’t doanything to make a fool of myself—like spill food down the front of my clothes—and the next thing I knew, we were sitting down at the table to eat. The trembling I felt in my belly hadn’t subsided, and it had not a single thing to do with being hungry. In fact, I wasn’t quite sure I’d be able to eat until Marco tasted the food and confirmed that he liked it.

It blew my mind how I’d been so confident two days ago that he wouldn’t like my food to suddenly feeling worried that might actually be the case. Why did it matter?

Marco glanced down at the chicken, orzo pasta, and asparagus on his plate. “You get another ten out of ten on presentation. Between the way it smells and how it looks, my mouth is watering.”

I bit the corner of my lip. “Taste it.”

He picked up his knife and fork, cut through a piece of the chicken, and took a bite. I watched, unable to focus on things I might have in another situation—like the light shining in his eyes when the flavors hit his tongue, the way his lips stirred as he chewed, or how his throat moved when he swallowed—if I hadn’t been so stressed about what his reaction would be.

God, if he said he didn’t like it, I was confident I would die.

Marco’s expression turned confused, and he cut off another piece of chicken to eat. Following that bite, he asked, “Okay. What is this?”

“What?”

He pointed to the plate with his fork and knife. “What is this dish called?”

Stupidly, I blurted my answer without thinking twice about it. “Marry Me Chicken.”

Marco’s brows shot up. “Pardon?”

Heat flooded me, my embarrassment no doubt obvious as the flush crept over my skin. My ears were impossibly hot, and if I wasn’t already in my own home, I might have tried to flee.With my back rounding, my chest caving in slightly from the humiliation I felt, I murmured, “It’s called Marry Me Chicken.”

Marco set his fork and knife down, rested his forearms on the table, and leaned forward, clearly interested in hearing more. What he didn’t do was speak or ask for additional details.

I raked my fingers through my hair, cleared my throat again, and swiftly explained, “It’s a silly name that was given to the dish. Obviously, they could have called it creamy sun-dried tomato chicken, but that wasn’t the case. It got the name it did because apparently the idea is that the person the chicken is made for will love it so much, they’ll ask the preparer to marry them.”

More amusement leaked into his features. He squinted, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Hmm. So, if what you indicated two nights ago about my willingness to eat and enjoy a meal you made is true, you aren’t expecting a proposal. But if I actually like this, if I’m honest and admit that this is probably one of the best things I’ve ever tasted, would you want me to get down on one knee?”

In a perfect world, if all my dreams could come true, there wasn’t anything I think I wanted more than to fall in love, get married, and eventually start a family.

But I didn’t expect to garner a proposal because I made some chicken. And I certainly didn’t anticipate it ever being Marco who whipped out a ring for me.

Though my heart was racing after he’d said what he said while he had that gleam in his eye, I realized I couldn’t let it affect me. Marco was teasing; he was just being his usual self—laidback, friendly.

I had to tease right back, to be the strong woman I’d always been.

With my mind made up, I pressed my lips together in a knowing smile. When he raised a curious brow, I spoke. “Well,I’m not completely unreasonable, Marco. I wouldn’t expect you to present me with a ring by tomorrow or anything like that. But I’d say it should happen within at least six months, don’t you?”

It was a good thing I was paying attention, because if I hadn’t been, I might have missed the way his body went taut slightly just before he rolled his shoulders back, like he was trying to alleviate some frustration or tension. It happened so fast, I wondered if I’d imagined it.

But when too much time passed without a response from him, I thought it was best to ease his worries. I reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Relax. I was just joking with you, the same as you were with me. Honestly, I wasn’t even thinking of the name of the chicken when I made it. This dish is one of my favorites, which is why I made it for you.”

Then I pulled my hand away and lifted my utensils. Any of the stiffness that had been lingering in his features and frame instantly vanished, and Marco picked up his fork again. “One thing I can promise you, I wasn’t joking about how good this is. Honestly, it’s probably the best chicken dish I’ve ever had.”

“Do you really like it? It’s my favorite.”

He raised his fork, filled with another bite of the meat, to his mouth. And just before he popped it into his mouth, he confirmed, “It’s delicious. And I won.”

“Won? Won what?”

“You said I wouldn’t like your food. Clearly, you were wrong.”

I huffed. “Well, don’t ask me to bake some cookies for you any time soon. If I don’t burn them, it’ll only be because I missed some crucial ingredient that results in them tasting awful.”

“Ah, that’s okay. Have you seen me?”

Confusion washed over me. “Uh, yeah?”

---