Page 41 of Love, Untangled

He was falling hard for his Sunshine and he now wanted to let go and enjoy each moment of the journey.

Chapter 17

Penelope

The stew Carlo served was delicious—savory and filling. Pen’s attempts at meals never tasted this good.

“Would you be willing to stay here tonight?” Carlo asked.

Her spoon dropped into her bowl and she lifted her head. “What?”

“I’m worried about your mother.”

Pen enjoyed the swirls of steam that drifted upward from the thick white bowl. It went well with his kitchen: sturdy and utilitarian but also homey. Pen liked the space, with its simple white cabinets and stone countertops. The farm sink was large and deep, the faucet the gooseneck shape that allowed for filling big pots, in a matte black finish that went stunningly well with the crisp green splashes of color.

“I couldn’t intrude,” she said.

She wanted to stay. She wanted this to be a date. But it wasn’t. And Carlo wasn’t asking her over out of anything romantic. At least she didn’t think so. He was worried her mother would do something to hurt or scare Pen.

She couldn’t discount that logic as a similar thought had crossed Pen’s mind too.

“I’ll be okay.” She mustered a smile, then picked up her spoon and began eating again. She’d learned, years ago, to eat when she could. So even though her stomach was knotted, the food was delicious and nourishing.

“I’d feel better if you weren’t alone for the next few days. If it’s too much to stay here, I can sleep on the couch at your place.”

He wasn’t going to let this go. Warmth spread through Pen’s body, and it had nothing to do with the food’s temperature. When was the last time someone truly cared for her? She couldn’t remember. She studied Carlo from under her lashes, taking in his strong nose and stubborn chin. He had such pretty lips, pink and plush. Pen had been dreaming about kissing them for weeks.

“You want more?” he asked, eyeing her rapidly emptying bowl.

Pen shook her head. Even if her stomach allowed it, her cheeks ached too much to keep chewing. “Thank you for the meal. That was one of the best I’ve ever eaten,” she said.

He frowned. “That can’t be right.”

“But it is. Why would you think I’d lie to you?”

He set his fork down and studied her. “I didn’t think you lied. More like used hyperbole. It’s just some soup.”

“That you cooked and spiced and whatever else goes into it.”

“Are you telling me you’ve never had homemade stew before?”

Something brittle and cold seemed to fist in her chest. “My mother…”

“Yeah?” Carlo leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. She would have assumed he was getting comfortable if not for the sharp glint in his eyes and the tenseness of his jaw.

“She wasn’t conventional.”

“What the hell does that mean?” A muscle ticked in Carlo’s jaw.

“She didn’t believe in regular meals—she’d tell me to eat when I was hungry. So that’s what I did. Typically snacks.”

“Like…bananas? Apples? Raisins?”

Pen shook her head. “Chips. Pretzels. Frozen pizza. Gas station hot dogs…”

Carlo cursed under his breath, anger flashing over his features, so Pen rushed on.

“I’ve been making meals here. But I’m not very good at it. I tried pasta and chicken a couple of nights ago.” That had been mostly edible except she’d overcooked the pasta and worried the chicken wasn’t heated enough. And now that she thought about it, she hadn’t paired the meal with any fruits or vegetables. She hung her head. “All I meant was this was good.”

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