Page 66 of Bragg's Match

I feel my cheeks warm. I inhaled those cookies after a long day at my kiln. “I plead the fifth.”

“I’m glad you liked them. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy my pasta bake casserole. I didn’t have much time to cook today and all the recipe blogs recommended making casseroles when you’re busy.” He chatters on as he puts the vacuum cleaner away and strolls to the kitchen.

“It’ll be fine,” I say as I fall onto a bar stool. I’m certain whatever he cooked is edible. I’m just glad I don’t have to cook. That someone cooked for me for a change.

“Fine?” he asks as he opens the oven and removes the pasta concoction.

The scent of melted cheese and marinara sauce hits me and my stomach rumbles.

He sets the dish on the counter in front of me. “I’m hoping for better than fine.”

I inhale another whiff of cheese and pasta. Comfort food at its best. “Smells good.”

He hands me a plate, silverware, and a napkin. “Do you want a glass of wine or water?” he asks as he opens the fridge.

“A glass of water.”

He sets a glass of water on the counter before scooping a huge helping of pasta and cheese onto my plate.

“Do you expect me to eat all of this?”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “If you don’t finish your dinner, there will be no dessert for you.”

I bite my bottom lip. “What’s for dessert?”

His eyes flare. “Whatever you want, pixie girl.”

My body warms at the idea of having him for dessert. The last time we had sex – the one and only time we had sex – I didn’t get a chance to taste him.

Brody taps my plate. “Eat first. You need to eat. I know you’ve been skipping lunch every day.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “How do you know I’ve been skipping lunch? Are you spying on me?”

He chuckles. “I don’t need to. I get a report from the gossip gals every day about your behavior.”

I drop my fork and it clangs as it hits my plate. “You have got to be kidding me.”

He shrugs. “Small town living.”

“I don’t get a report about what you’re doing every day.”

“Probably because I work all day at home alone.”

I pick my fork back up and point it at him. “If all you do is work, then why are you fidgeting in your chair?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Seriously? You practically undressed me with your eyes and you’re wondering why I’m fidgeting?”

“I didn’t undress you with my eyes.”

“Sure, you didn’t.” He nudges my fork. “Eat.”

“What are you? The food police?” I grumble before stuffing a mound of pasta into my mouth.

“I want to take care of you.”

I nearly choke on my food. He wants to take care of me? I’m the one who takes care of everyone. Not the other way around.

He thrusts my glass of water into my hands. “Drink this.”

---