Page 75 of Filthy Little Regrets

“Red?”

“Obviously.”

Nodding, I slip into the pantry, grab one of a hundred bottles of Slingshot—her favorite wine—and set it on the island.

Her eyebrows jump in surprise. “How did you?—”

“I know a lot,” I say with a grin.

She squints at me, but lets my obvious stalking go and changes the subject. “I never understood why rich people have such fancy kitchens if they can’t even be bothered to cook,” she says, her attention on the room while she avoids my gaze.

I pop the cork out of the bottle. “Who says I don’t cook?”

She scoffs. “You expect me to believe a bachelor like you knows how?”

Filling up both glasses with deep burgundy wine, I shrug. “I already told you I know how.”

“I thought you were lying.” She takes the goblet I offer her. “Fine. Prove it.”

“What do you want to eat?”

“Whatever you can make.” She tips her head and narrows her eyes. “Well, whatever you can make, as long as it’s not air on a plate.”

“Not impressed by dinner?”

“Who knew you could have a four-course meal and leave starving?”

I smirk. “I can make the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had.”

She takes a sip of her wine and hums. “Have you been stalking me?”

That’s too light of a term. Obsessing might be better. With a shrug, I say, “Grilled cheese is a crowd pleaser.”

Considering me over the rim of her glass, Cassia takes another sip and slides off the barstool, coming around the counter. “I have high standards when it comes to grilled cheese.”

As if I don’t know that or that her mimi’s grilled cheese was her favorite. I spent far too long scrolling through her social media, and one recurring theme when it came to time she spent with Mimi was the grilled cheese. More than simple white bread, American cheese, and butter, Mimi used a fresh loaf of whole grain bakery bread and white cheese. Sometimes Cassia’s picture had a tomato bisque with the sandwich, but I don’t have time to whip that up. I hope my recreating a favorite of hers is good enough.

“Prepared to be amazed.” After picking up my wineglass and taking a big drink, I grab the bread, aged white cheddar, muenster cheese, and butter from the fridge and set it on the counter. I don’t know the exact cheese Mimi used, but so far, muenster and aged white cheddar have gone well together. I can always refine it based on Cassia’sreaction.

Cassia hops onto the island next to the stovetop, crossing her legs on the marble countertop, that slit parts, revealing tantalizing skin. “You know making grilled cheese doesn’t count as cooking, right?”

I drop the items next to her and place my hands on either side of her hips, leaning into her space until we’re inches apart. “Should I put it all back?”

“No, no. I was just talking shit, but since you’re making it, I guess I should probably stop,” she says quickly, chewing on her bottom lip and searching my face. Her stomach growls. Eyes wide, she slaps her hands over it and looks away, cheeks turning scarlet.

“I should fire that chef,” I say, brow furrowing as I abandon being close in favor of making her food.

“What would Darius say?”

“Fuck Darius,” I mutter, thinly slicing enough cheese for two sandwiches.

“So...I guess I don’t need to ask if you guys get along.”

I set the knife down and shoot her a look. “Have you ever heard the sayingyou can’t choose your family?”

She nods.

Untwisting the tie around the loaf of bread, I tug it out and set it on the cutting board next, placing the knife on the surface. “Well, that’s true for my dad.”

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