Page 46 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love
Her gaze drifted to three identical black T-shirts draped over three separate radiators.“Love the wardrobe variety.Extra points for doing your own laundry.”
Donatello rolled his eyes.“If you’re done judging my space, the kitchen’s this way.”
He led her through the living room toward what turned out to be a surprisingly spacious kitchen.Granite countertops gleamed under pendant lights, and a professional-grade gas range took center stage along the counter.
Andromeda hopped onto a barstool on the far side of the kitchen island, watching as Donatello pulled ingredients from a well-stocked refrigerator.“This kitchen is spacious for a bachelor pad,” she observed.
“Guilty.”He grinned, setting down a block of Parmesan cheese.“I’m Italian.I love to cook.”He reached for a pot from an overhead rack, muscles flexing beneath his sweater.“And the kitchen’s not the only thing with… generous proportions.”
Her gaze flicked up.“You must mean your ego.”
“Obviously.”His dimple surfaced as he smirked, and Andromeda had to look away before she told him to skip dinner and move straight to dessert.Her attention drifted to a pristine white apron hanging on a hook near the pantry door.It looked conspicuously unused, like a prop purchased to complete the image of a home chef but never employed in the messy business of cooking.
“Do you wear that when you’re feeling extra domestic?”She nodded toward it.
“No, it’s for emergencies.Like when guests judge my T-shirt collection.”He filled the pot with water and set it on the stove to boil.
He moved through the kitchen—chopping garlic, tossing onions into the pan, cracking open cans of tomatoes—all annoying confidence and pan-flipping grace.He measured herbs into his palm with the casual precision of someone who didn’t need recipes, just instinct.The kitchen was getting warmer—or maybe it was just her face.
“What are you making?”she asked.
“The best spaghetti you ever had,” he promised, stirring the sauce with one hand while reaching for a bottle of red wine with the other.“Want some?”
At her nod, he poured her a glass, sliding it across the island toward her.If ever a moment called for liquid courage, this was it.
When he took out a box grater, unpacked the Parmesan, and rolled up his sleeves, she took a sip of wine to hide her growing appreciation for the view.
“Do you always grate cheese like you’re auditioning for a cooking show?”
Donatello paused, a knowing smile playing on his lips.“You don’t seem to mind my technique.In fact, you haven’t taken your eyes off my hands for the past two minutes.”
She looked away, determined not to give him the satisfaction of catching her staring again.But as he turned back to the stove, he became fair game again.His sweater stretched across his broad back, while his shoulder blades shifted beneath the fabric as he stirred the sauce.His nape was flushed, a detail that shouldn’t have been interesting but derailed her entire train of thought.
She stood up, needing something else to focus on.“Where do you keep plates and cutlery?I’ll set the table.”
Donatello turned, his expression mock-scandalized.“You want into my cabinets already, Swan?”
“Should I worry you have all black plates too?”she countered.
He stepped closer, bumping his hip against hers.“Are you always this difficult?”
The brief contact sent a jolt through Andromeda’s body, momentarily short-circuiting her ability to form a clever response.All she could manage was a strangled, “Yes.”
Donatello noticed—of course he did—and his smirk widened.“Second cabinet on the left,” he conceded.
Andromeda busied herself setting the small dining table.The plates were, thankfully, not all black but simple white ceramic.
As she arranged the silverware, she couldn’t reconcile the man at the stove with the detective who’d burst into her life with handcuffs and accusations.Now he was all rolled-up sleeves and lilac hair, setting water to boil and grating cheese like it was performance art.
By the time she finished, Donatello was draining the pasta.He combined it with the sauce, tossing it with easy movements that bordered on indecent before transferring it to a serving bowl.
They settled across from each other, and Donatello served generous portions onto their plates.Andromeda twirled a forkful of spaghetti and took her first bite.
As the flavors hit her palate, she moaned—again—at the perfect balance of acidity and richness, the hint of heat from red pepper flakes.It was, annoyingly, the best pasta she’d ever tasted.
Donatello didn’t say a word.He gave her a satisfied, seductive smirk that made her want to both slap him and kiss him senseless.
“Okay, I hate how good this is,” she admitted grudgingly.
