Page 120 of Mr. Hook-up

“Then what’s your specialty?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have one.”

He released my waist to put on an oven mitt and reach into the stove, pulling out a lump of tinfoil, which, when he opened it, turned out to hold bread. “Then I have an idea.” When he removed the mitt from his hand, he grazed my chin with the lightest touch. “Why don’t we take a private cooking class together?”

I broke off a corner of the bread and popped it into my mouth. “Here? At your condo?”

“Anywhere.”

I thought about it for a moment, tried to really picture what that would look like. “I think I’d enjoy that.”

“You think?” He smiled, cocking his head to the side.

“I mean, my skills aren’t anywhere close to yours, so I’d need some heavy-handed instruction, but yes, that would be a lot of fun.”

“I’m going to put something together. I’ll make sure you love it.”

I gave him a kiss. “I can’t wait.”

He took the wine from my hand and brought it over to the table. During his next trip, he delivered the bread and a glass of red for himself. And before we sat down, he added several scoops of paella into two bowls, and we occupied two chairs across from one another.

I didn’t wait. I immediately dug in, pulling off the tail of a shrimp as I bit into the meaty body, groaning as all the flavors hit my tongue.

“Why aren’t you eating?” I asked, realizing I’d finished several bites’ worth at this point and he hadn’t even touched his food.

His eyes narrowed. “Watching you devour my cooking is so fucking erotic.”

I laughed. “I’m eating like an animal.”

“And it’s hot.” He picked up his wine. “I’d much rather have you for dinner than anything that’s on this table.”

His admission was thick, like the steam coming off the paella.

His words struck up a feeling.

One that, even months after our first kiss, hadn’t dimmed in the slightest.

If anything, the way he made me feel was stronger than it had ever been.

“I’m pretty sure you can have both.” I ran my teeth over my bottom lip. “You don’t have to choose me over the food.”

He took a drink, brushing his thumb over his mouth. “I’m just not sure I want to wait.”

I glanced down at my plate. “And let this masterpiece turn cold?” I speared a scallop and stuck the whole thing into my mouth. “Not a chance,” I mumbled through my fingers.

He laughed. “In that case, I have another idea.” He got up from his chair, and at first, I thought he was going to come over to mine and pick me up and take me into his bedroom. Something he’d done before. But he walked through the living room and what sounded like his office, returning a few seconds later with an envelope that he slid across the table to me. “Open it.”

I was in the middle of cutting a piece of lobster tail and set down my knife and fork, slipping my finger under the flap of the envelope. “What is this?” I waited for him to answer. When he didn’t, I continued opening the top, then pulled out a series of photographs that showed a mountain range that was positively breathtaking. The rock was deep in color, burgundy, eggplant, even a burnt pumpkin. And in the middle of those mountains was a strip of land that looked to be covered in dirt.

I gazed up at him again, and since he hadn’t answered my first question, I added, “Where is this?”

“Moab, Utah.”

“I’ve never been.” I glanced at the photos again. “It looks positively stunning.”

He reached across the table, putting his hand on my arm. “You’ll be seeing it in person in a few weeks.”

My heart began to flutter, the same sensation moving into my stomach. “I will?”

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