Page 128 of Coco and the Misfits

“My favorite,” he calls out.

That makes me grin. I end up abandoning the flowers on the table because Atticus is here and I can’t be bothered to dig around and find the jug, not now.

Returning to the kitchen, I find him pouring the wine into wine glasses he pilfered from my cupboards. He passes me one and raises his, along with a silver brow.

“To second chances,” he says.

I hesitate, then nod. “To second chances.”

His answering grin is brilliant. We both sip at our wine, which is fresh and crisp, and then I lead the way back to my living room, where the round dining table is.

“Let me bring the pot,” I say, leaving my glass there and hurrying back to the kitchen. The air is filled with the scent of roses, and I’m loath to dispel it with the aromas of the seafood, not to mention my stomach is so full of butterflies I don’t know if I can eat.

I grab the pot and start toward the living room, only to almost drop it when he appears in front of me. “Let me take that,” he says. “It’s heavy.”

Before I can say a word, he grabs it and carries it to the table. Then he walks around and pulls my chair out for me.

Old-fashioned gallantry.

My face warm, I take my seat and he sits across from me. Then he proceeds to serve me and himself, too.

“Thank you for the invitation,” he says, somewhat formal and sweet, “and for cooking for me. I admit I’ve missed having you around very much.”

I busy myself twirling my fork in my mound of pasta. “Thanks.”

“And so have the plants on the terrace,” he says softly. “They had been greener with you around and now they’re drooping and lonely.” He swallows audibly. “Like me.”

I glance up and what I see in his green eyes has me gulping. I search for something neutral to say. “I hope you like the food.”

After a moment, he takes a bite and I watch him like a hawk. The moan he produces makes me shiver. “God, that is so good. You’re the best cook I’ve ever met.”

“I’m glad you like it. I don’t think I’m the best cook there is.”

“Honest to God, kitten, if you cooked with sugar instead of salt, if you burned the food every day, I’d still love it because it was you who cooked it.”

Aw, that was sweet. And romantic. Strangely, it makes me work harder on my self-restraint, but maybe that’s not strange. He’s getting under my defenses so easily it’s as if they’re made of paper straws.

We finish eating in easy silence, clinking our wine glasses together once or twice, both of us smiling.

It’s cozy. And I shouldn’t let it be. I haven’t forgiven him, still working through his story to decide if I’m ready to do it. I’m certainly not ready to accept him back in my good graces yet.

Or consider anything more with him.

“Dessert?” I ask once we’ve polished our plates. Turns out I was hungry after all.

“Let me guess. Something with chocolate.” He smirks. “Chocolate ice cream?”

“Ten points to the bearded gentleman,” I quip and hurry away to the kitchen before I self-combust—out of pleasure that he remembers what I like, and out of embarrassment.

Okay, and lust, but that’s a given by now.

“How are you feeling?” he asks when I return with the ice cream and bowls. “Since that awful night, I keep thinking about you, hoping you’re safe, and feeling safe, too.”

“It’s getting better. I need to ask you something.”

He spreads his hands. “Anything.”

“Did you, or Ryder, or Zach follow me around on the streets since then?”

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