Page 77 of That One Night
Well, that surprised her. “You don’t?”
He turned to look at her, and she let go of his back. Hendrix leaned down to press his mouth against hers.
His kiss was hungry. And short, because the tomatoes were starting to bubble.
“I rarely eat meat,” he told her. “I don’t even put it in this sauce, though you’re supposed to. I use mushrooms instead, though I’m pretty sure Nonna Gabriella would beat me over the head with her least favorite pan if she knew.”
“Do you not like the texture?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “I just don’t like eating the animals I spend all day taking care of.”
It was weird how that made her chest feel tight. He had such a masculine,don’t careexterior. And yet there were all these little clues that led to one conclusion. Hendrix Hartson was a good man. Even if he pretended otherwise.
He grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer and scooped it into the pan before lifting it to his mouth so he could taste the sauce. “Needs a little more salt,” he murmured, grabbing the salt grinder and sprinkling some in.
“Where’s the recipe?” she asked, wondering if he had it on his phone. But it was nowhere to be seen.
“Here.” He touched his head. “I’m not good at reading recipes. You’ve already seen what I’m like with paperwork.” He looked suddenly shy, like he’d said something he wished he hadn’t. “Anyway, it’s simple. No recipe book needed. Want to try a bit?”
“Absolutely.” She watched as he grabbed a fresh spoon and dipped it in, then lifted it up, blowing on it before he offered it to her. The simple intimacy of the action made her breathless. Then she opened her mouth and tasted it.
“Oh God,” she murmured, once she swallowed it down. “That’s delicious.”
“Right?”
She shook her head. “I could go to culinary school for a year and never make it that good. I’m never going to be able to cook for you now.”
“In that case, you can set the table,” he told her. “Silverware is on the counter.”
“On it.” She grabbed the forks and spoons – because of course he ate the Italian way – and walked over to the tiny kitchen table in the corner of the room. The papers she’d sorted through for him were neatly piled on the surface.
“I sent the grant applications off,” he told her. “I still have to go through the bills.”
A jolt of warmth went through her. She liked knowing she was helping him. Her dad had taught her how important federal grants could be to the running of a farm. Especially a small one like Hendrix’s.
“Are you dyslexic?” she asked him. Because it felt like the right time to ask.
It was like watching the doors slam shut. His face literally closed down in front of her eyes. There was no expression there, no nothing. “Drop it,” he said.
She blinked at the harshness of his tone. It contrasted so badly with the way he’d treated her up to now. “I was just asking…”
“And I was just saying I don’t want to talk about it. Do you want a drink? Wine?”
Emery let out a breath. “Just water, please.” After the bar dancing debacle, she’d be happy not to drink alcohol for the rest of her life.
He nodded and poured them both a glass from the refrigerator, then carried over the glasses followed by the bowls of pasta.
They both pulled out a chair, and she felt herself squirm at how fast the atmosphere between them had changed. She wanted to take back her words. To stop him from scowling. Taking a deep breath, she looked at him.
“I’m sorry. I should have thought before I opened my mouth.”
For a second he closed his eyes. Like he was trying to find the right words. When he opened them again, she saw that vulnerability she’d seen earlier.
“No, I’m sorry. I just…” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
“I’ve had worse,” she joked, but that only made him wince.
“And you’ve deserved better. You deserve better from me.” He shook his head. “Yes, I’m mildly dyslexic. I was diagnosed as an adult. For most of my life I just thought I was stupid.”
