Page 60 of Shame

“Let me make dinner with you tonight,” he says, his voice urgent. “And you give me the rest of the list as we cook together.”

26

Luke

She leavesme to sleep off the tequila, and when I wake up in the early afternoon, there’s a text message from her.

Fear grips my chest as I click into it, fully expecting her to have cancelled our plans. Instead, she’s given me an instruction.

Grace: I want to try making cacio e pepe. Can you go shopping?

Grace: And how’s your head?

Fingers shaking, I type back an affirmative response.

Luke: Shopping, yep. And the head will survive, but no more tequila for a while.

Then I google whatever the fuckcacio e pepeis, find out it’s some glorified Mac and cheese, and tell myself it’s literally, truly the least I can fucking do.

I remain an absolute bastard, though, because it’s not until I’ve read three recipes on it that I’m even remotely interested in this. It sounds like a coma-inducing carb nightmare.

I couldn’t be more wrong.

* * *

Grace’s cheeksare pink from the steam, and she nudges my elbow. “Hurry, Luke,” she says, her voice light with laughter. “You need to add the cheese now, and I’ll stir.”

I jostle around her, my arms long enough to bracket her as I grate the block of parmesan with the new rasp I bought just in case the one we’ve never used in our kitchen isn’t sharp enough.

The pasta smells amazing. Peppery and salty, it’s coming together into a dish that I guess I’ve seen her order in restaurants, but never really thought about.

We’ve made something here, together, and it’s kind of fucking amazing.

“All right, I think that’s good,” she says, wiggling with joy. “Let me grab two bowls, and—”

She twists in the bracket of my arms and I turn us around, intending to point her in the direction of the cupboard where we keep the bowls, but she winds up clinging to me instead of spinning away.

She’s pressed against me. She can feel I’m hard for her. Her breath comes shallow, sweet and panting, which only makes me throb more.

“Luke…”

“I’m enjoying making dinner together,” I say, my voice low and rough. “Just ignore the rest of it.”

“I’m not ready.”

“I know.” But that means she might be soon.

Time to learn how to cook a porterhouse for two. My wife wants variety? She wants a partner to bump into in the kitchen, until her cheeks are pink and my cock is aching for more than a scant brush against her body?

Fucking hell, I can be that guy.

Iamthat guy.

And I’m as surprised as she is.

We plate up our pasta, and she watches me with a funny look on her face as I light a candle for the table.

“A bit on the nose?”

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