Page 42 of Chasing Sparks

This is why I nicknamed him the Pussy Whisperer.

It’s voodoo of the highest order.

It’s also why it’s imperative for me to maintain some sense of focus. Keep my heart on a shelf far from Ash’s clutches—not that he wants that part of my body, regardless.

Time to regain control of this conversation train and steer it to safer—albeit far less enjoyable—waters. “Let’s see if you like dinner well enough to stay for dessert first. Have a seat.”

Ash’s eyes widen at my abrupt pivot away from sexy time, but he follows my command and settles into a chair.

“Hope you’re hungry. I made garlic focaccia and chicken saltimbocca.”

“When you said Italian, I figured you meant spaghetti and meatballs.”

I pause, the spatula hovering midway between the pan and the plate. “Would you rather have that?”

“Hell no. I’m just surprised.”

I hand him a plate, a grin splitting my face as he inhales the fragrant goodness. “Why? I told you I could cook.”

Ash gestures to the food. “You did, but this is gourmet level. And it’s a traditional Roman meal.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Did you know my grandmother was born in Rome?”

I rest my chin in my hand, giving him a slight shrug. “I had no clue. Did she make these dishes for you when you were growing up?”

“She did, but it’s been a long time.” Ash leans back in his chair, swirling his wine as a flicker of humor dances in his eyes. “You really didn’t know? Braden didn’t give you a heads-up?”

A bolt of irritation flashes through me at his egocentric remark. “Oh, I see. This is how women woo you, isn’t it? Ply you with a genuine Roman dish hoping to win your heart?”

“It’s happened once or twice,” he murmurs, his gaze steady and intent on me.

“No doubtwaymore than that.” I hold back a laugh at the surprise flickering across his features and turn my focus to my plate. Taking a bite, I release a low moan of satisfaction. “While I admire their efforts—futile as they may be—mine is pure coincidence. I took cooking classes from a woman who hailed from Roma. She taught me a few tricks, although I suppose you’ll be the judge of that.”

Ash stays silent for a few beats before setting his glass on the table. “Huh. You’re full of surprises, Ori.”

“That’s probably because you know nothing about me, Ash.” I gesture toward his plate with a smirk. “Now, less talking, more eating.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Ash takes a bite, and a low groan escapes him as the flavors hit. “Damn, little one. You’ve outdone yourself. This is spectacular. My grandmother would’ve been proud.”

“That was the goal. You liking it? That’s just a bonus.”

This time, his laugh is genuine. It’s strange because I’ve only really known the man a couple of weeks, but I know his different laughs.

There’s one for the public—affable and polite. Another for his close confidantes, a sharp snicker that borders on mischievous. And then there’s this one, warm and unguarded, like an embrace without the use of his arms.

I’ve only heard that laugh when we’re alone and I like to think it’s something special.

Am I reading too much into it? Likely, but a girl has to get her romance somewhere.

“To amazing food, incredible wine, and exquisite company. Thank you. This may be the best meal I’ve ever had.”

I sputter my wine at his statement. “Don’t say that too loud, or your grandmother might come back to haunt you.”

“She probably would—and then join you in the kitchen to whip up a feast. She would’ve loved you.” He shifts in his seat after saying the words, like he’s just let slip something he hadn’t meant to.

“I’m sure I would’ve loved her, too,” I reply softly, leaning in. “Could’ve picked her brain for all her culinary tips. Tell me about your family. I want to know all their deep, dark secrets.”

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