Page 17 of Someone to Have
“I like popsicles and finding creative ways to make them melt,” he says with a wink.
Melting. Well, that’s relatable.
Toby has already reminded both of us that manwhore-with-a-heart is not my type. But this isn’t the Eric I remember. The one whose cockiness made me want to disappear into the nearest bookshelf.
I bite into the lasagna, and for the first time, truly understand the concept of a food orgasm.
“Oh my God, where did you learn to cook? Is this your signature dish? Is it some version of marry-me chicken?” I realize I’m talking around a mouthful of food and concentrate on chewing.
He’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I’ve never asked anyone to marry me, with or without chicken.”
I swallow back a laugh. “It’s a recipe that went viral a couple of years ago because it’s so good it will make someone want to marry you for it.”
“Not familiar,” he says with a shrug.
I take another bite and try not to think about what it would take for Eric Anderson to get down on one knee for a woman. None of my concern. Zero. Zip. Nada.
“Your lasagna could go viral.”
“You like it that much?” He looks almost uncertain as he asks the question.
“It’s stupid good.” I point my fork at him. “You didn’t answer the question about where you learned to cook.”
“I got sidetracked when you started talking about marriage,” he says with a small smile.
I blend into the background of most situations, and that’s always been fine with me. Yet here in my apartment with Eric, I feel decidedly chatty. I’m about to offer another teasing remark, but I keep my mouth shut because I want to know where this recipe and his skill in the kitchen comes from.
The number of ways Eric Anderson surprises me is growing by the second.
“I stayed with a teammate’s family in Italy one summer during the off-season. His mom, sister, and aunts spent a lot of time in the kitchen,” he explains.
“And your friend?”
“He has old-school views about who belongs in the kitchen, so he and his brothers stayed far away. But I asked the women to teach me.”
“Youwantedto learn?”
“Cooking’s a skill, just like skating and shooting a puck.”
“Maybe that explains why I stick to cereal.”
He laughs. “Then having me as your neighbor will be good for something.”
“Don’t count on it.” I take another bite and tamp down another groan. Damn, he might be right.
5
TAYLOR
Slightly embarrassedthat I’ve polished off most of a giant slice of lasagna in three bites, I fork up some salad.
“Is your culinary repertoire limited to pasta?”
“Not exclusively,” he answers. “Although if I had a marry-me dish, it would be my Bolognese sauce.”
“Maybe a get-in-your-pants dish?” I tease, then choke at my flirty tone, barely recognizing my own voice. I suck at flirting, and I’m not interested in improving my skills with Eric, so I quickly continue, “Trust me, I don’t want to try your Bolognese.”
His smile is slow and…let’s face it…panty melting. “Trustme, Tinkerbell, I don’t need sauce to get into a woman’s pants.”
