Page 14 of Tequila Burn

Chapter Six

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Emma:The beach house sold. Should be closing in thirty days.

I read Emma’s message as the elevator lifts me to my floor. Having just left Emma at the inland house not even thirty minutes ago, I’m assuming she must have just found out.

Me:Seriously. That’s amazing. How much did it sell for?

The elevator doors slide open as I hit send. Stepping out, I let out a small sigh, a little sad to know someone else will be living in the house I’ve fantasized about buying for months–knowing I could never ever afford it.

Emma:That’s the amazing part. It sold for one point six million.

Me:Holy shit.

Stopping in front of my door, I try to mentally calculate how much of that will be mine.

Unlocking the door and pushing my way inside, I drop my keys on the breakfast bar and freeze when I spot Hudson standing at the dining room table I rarely ever use. The round glass surface is set for two. A bottle of wine, bread, and what appears to be pasta sit in the middle, illuminated by two tall candlesticks burning in the center.

“What’s this?” I ask, looking from the table back to Hudson.

“Dinner.” He grins.

“You cooked?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“I did.” He pulls out a chair and gestures for me to join him.

“You didn’t have to do this.” Kicking off my shoes, I take a seat as Hudson takes the seat next to me.

“I know. I wanted to.” He unfolds his napkin and sets it in his lap. “I hope you like chicken parmesan.”

“One of my favorites.”

“Confession. I knew that already. I may have texted your sister,” he admits, his dimple pulling my gaze to his cheek.

“Oh lord. You probably made her day.” I roll my eyes and laugh.

“I wanted to make you something I knew you’d enjoy. It just so happens my mother taught me how to make homemade pasta.”

“You made this yourself?” I look down at the perfectly round noodles.

“Well, I had to go to the store and buy a pasta maker, but yes, I did.”

“You bought a pasta maker?” I chuckle.

“It’s the easiest way to roll out pasta.” He shrugs, picking up his fork before spinning it into his noodles and shoveling a bite into his mouth seconds later.

I shake my head, not able to wipe the smile off my face as I twist noodles onto my fork before sliding them into my mouth.

“This is amazing,” I tell him around my mouthful, practically moaning around the bite. “Did you make the sauce too?” I ask after I’ve swallowed and washed it down with a drink of Moscato.

“From scratch.” He nods.

“My god. Remind me to let you cook from now on.”

“I don’t know. You’re pretty good in the kitchen too.”

“Not this good.” I point my fork down at my plate.

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