Page 80 of Mended Hearts

Ollie made a noise like he was clearing his throat, but it sounded more like a growl.

“Don’t like that idea?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Chuckling, I grinned at him, shaking my head when he flashed that blinding smile. He just had to be stupidly beautiful. Couldn’t have looked like a bulldog or had one of those punchable faces. No, Ollie had to be the kind of man who made every woman in a hundred-yard radius salivate.Damn it, Pavlov.

Peeling my eyes off the masterpiece in question, I snatched a new wooden spoon from the drawer and turned back to the stove as Ollie ducked into the dining room to press a kiss to Tillie’s very focused forehead. It didn’t seem to bother him that she didn’t acknowledge him. And why in the hell did that sight make my ovaries weep?

I snuck a taste and grimaced as nerves twisted in my belly. I wasn’t a terrible cook, but I definitely wasn’t a professional, and I most certainly didn’t grow up with an Italian grandmother to teach me her ways. Sure, it was hard to screw up pizza—but if anyone could manage, it’d be me. And for some reason, the idea of failing in front of Ollie made me want to crawl into the cabinet under the sink and die quietly.

“Bad?” he asked from directly behind me, startling me for the second time in as many minutes. “Jesus, Trouble, try one less coffee tomorrow. You’re coming out of your skin.”

Yeah. I had been—ever since Beau told me about the grown-ass man talking to him at the park.Stupid. Probably nothing. But it had me on edge, and I couldn’t shake the feeling. I’d sent another email to Detective Riviera, but my hopes for a response weren’t high.

Then that witch rode her broom into the recital Friday night, and I’d felt one shot of espresso away from a breakdown ever since.

“I don’t know, honestly. I’m nervous,” I admitted—right as he caged me against the counter with his body, peering over my shoulder at the simmering pot. My breath hitched.

“It needs something,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Looks good,” he murmured, and the warmth of his voice ghosted over the back of my neck like a promise. “Smells good.”

Yes. Yes, he did. Like spiced aftershave andman. God, he had a natural musk that made my toes curl. This was not good. Not good at all.

“Try some?”

“Please,” he agreed. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the slight tilt of his chin toward the spoon.

Clearing my throat, I scooped a taste and turned. My back brushed his chest, and my mouth went dry as I looked up—straight into that maddening Adam’s apple. With no words to offer and a lower lip demanding I stop gnawing it, I lifted the spoon to his lips. My stomach flipped as he accepted the bite, chewing thoughtfully.

“Salt,” he said, nodding. “And another pinch of oregano.”

With his hand between my shoulder blades, Ollie leaned past me, grabbed the salt, and gave it a liberal dusting. Then he tossed in a dash of oregano with confident precision. I loved that the man could cook. Loved that he had more money than God but still got his hands messy and treated it like a ritual instead of a task.

Heart pounding, I tried not to notice the way his cologne tangled with the garlic in the air—or how my body buzzed at his nearness.

Triedbeing the operative word.

Even as I stirred the pot, I felt like I was unraveling.

He stepped away, giving me a brief reprieve, only to return with two silver spoons—handing me one before lifting his own and dragging it slowly between his lips like he had a vendetta against my self-control.

I tried. Truly. But I couldn’t look away.

Never in my life had I wanted to be a piece of silverware so badly.

Did that make me an objectophile? Probably. I decided I didn’t actually care.

“Give it another few minutes,” he said, licking his lips before pursing them thoughtfully. “It’ll be perfect.”

I peeled away from him, forcing my attention to the fridge, yanking out the toppings I’d prepped earlier. Lord have mercy—I had to get myself under control.

Keeping my eyes—and body—as far away from Ollie as humanly possible, I lined the toppings up across the breakfast table in front of the dough I’d rolled out with the kids earlier. But I could feel him. Watching. Thinking.

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