Page 25 of Flawed

He picks up the glass and sniffs it, then briefly closes his eyes as he takes a mouthful. He swallows, licks his lips, then pins his gaze on mine. "Perfection."

I nod. "It's good."

He rises, kisses the top of my head, then resumes his position in the kitchen.

"Do you want some help?" I ask.

He glances around the kitchen, grabs a bottle of water, then sets it in front of me, replying, "Nope." He grabs a tomato, dices it, then adds it to the skillet.

"What are you making?" I ask, inhaling the rich garlic smell. My stomach growls again.

"Fresh tomato and basil sauce over pasta. But I apologize for these," Luca states, shaking a box of noodles.

"What's wrong with the spaghetti?" I ask.

He scrunches his face. "It's in a box."

"And your point is?"

He shakes his head, looking annoyed. "This is not real pasta."

"It's not?"

"No. Real pasta is fresh."

I gape at him.

"What did I say?" he asks.

"Don't tell me you know how to make homemade pasta," I reply.

He jerks his head back. "Of course I do. My mamma taught me right."

Still not believing it, I question, "Are you serious?"

"Why would I lie about pasta?" he asks.

I stare at him for a moment.

He pushes, "What?"

I hesitate but admit, "You're a lot different than I would have expected."

He pulls the noodles out of the box then releases them into the boiling water. He adds the basil to the skillet, stirs the contents, then wipes his hands on a dish towel. He tosses it on the counter then leans over the counter, grabbing my hand and caressing it. "How am I different?"

"You're a bad boy who cooks from scratch. Plus, you took care of me the last few days." Flames race up my cheeks as soon as the words come out of my mouth. I curse myself for blabbing my inner thoughts. I try to act nonchalant, shrugging and taking another sip of wine.

Luca takes the glass and pushes the water toward me. He asserts, "I shouldn't have opened the wine. I forgot you were sick. Let's stick with water so you don't have a relapse."

I open my mouth to protest then shut it. I momentarily forgot I was pregnant. No matter what the doctor said, I'm not totally comfortable or convinced a glass of wine is okay for the baby, so it's best if I just don't drink it. I nod, offering, "Thanks."

He kisses each knuckle on my hand. New tingles rush through my veins. I inhale deeply, and he pins his eyes on mine, saying, "Tell me something no one knows about you."

My pulse quickens, pounding in my neck. "Like what?"

He caresses his thumb over my hand, answering, "Anything you want."

Afraid I might spill everything I need to hide from him, I claim, "I don't have any secrets. I'm boring."

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