Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Dex’s is not.
High ceilings, rounded doorways.
It’s beautiful.
I follow him to the kitchen, where mouthwatering smells waft toward my nose and greet me. An exquisite dining table is laid with charger plates and dishes and more silverware than I can count. Everything looks like it came from the pages of a magazine.
“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed as I glance around taking it all in. “I thought you were lying when you said you were a good cook.” I hardly know where to focus my attention, eyes bouncing to every surface within their range.
He’s a good decorator too.
Beside me Dex laughs, a deep, rich sound that makes me shiver to my core. “I told you. But you haven’t tasted it yet, maybe it tastes like shit. Who knows, maybe it’s total shit.” He jokes. “Come sit.”
I settle myself on a stool at the counter and watch as he pours us each a glass of red wine.
“So,” I begin, pointing over my shoulder toward his front door. “I’m not sure if it was my imagination, but I think I saw someone suspicious out front.”
Dex nods. “Paparazzi maybe?”
Oh.
I guess it makes sense that paps watch his house, but it still feels weird. “Do they sit outside like that a lot?”
He shrugs, taking a sip from his wineglass. “Sometimes.” He hesitates. “I think they caught wind that I’m dating someone.”
Is he talking about . . . “Me?”
He grins. “Yeah you.”
We clink glasses, and I take my first sip, giving him a furtive glance over the brim.
He is so damn good looking.
God, how did I get myself into this mess?
What mess?
The mess where I’m dating a man who doesn’t want kids, who is in the public eye—not to mention, he’s younger than I am.
That Mess!
I shift my gaze and give my muddled brain a shake, glancing to the counter where some cooking supplies are still out. Fresh tomatoes. Containers of sugar. A rolling pin. Flour scattered across the cold stone.
“Wait.” My jaw drops open as I connect the dots. “Did you make the pasta from scratch?”
He shrugs humbly. “Cannot confirm or deny.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” He has to be lying—even I don’t make my own pasta—never, not once have I attempted it. Never wanted to! And here is this grown man—a man-child, really—who has prepared it for our date. “How long did that take you?”
Another demure shrug. “I don’t know, like twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes!” I shriek, voice shooting up a million octaves. “Stop it, there is no way.”
Dex blushes. “Maybe it was more like an hour. I wasn’t keeping track.”
I relax back into my seat. “Even so, making your own pasta is . . . impressive.” Like, wow. My stomach grumbles. “I can’t wait. I’m starving.”
Dex chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through the kitchen air. He moves closer, scooting around the counter to my side, the scent of fresh basil clinging to his clothes.
Oh my God—yum.
My eyes trace the lines of his face, his jawline dusted with stubble, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks good.
Good enough to eat.
Down, girl. You haven’t had dinner yet; stop thinking about making him dessert!
I try to focus on anything else, but my mind drifts. I can’t help but imagine him kneading the dough to make the noodles, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each motion. I find myself wondering if those same strong hands could be just as skilled in other areas . . . if you catch my drift.
“So.” I swear my voice cracks as I try to steer my thoughts back to a normal conversation. “What’s the secret to your pasta? Besides an absurd amount of patience?” I know how tedious sauces can be.
Dex grins, a playful glint in his eye. “If I told you my secret, I’d have to kill you.”
I laugh, the sound a bit too loud in his cavernous kitchen. “Guess I’ll have to live in suspense.”
He leans in, his arm brushing mine as he reaches for the wine bottle. The contact sends a shiver up my spine.
Spellbound, I watch as he pours himself another, the liquid swirling and catching the light.
“Cheers. To homemade pasta,” he says, raising his glass.
“To homemade pasta,” I echo, clinking my glass against his.
“And us,” he adds, winking.
Us.
“Seriously,” I say. “Thanks for offering to cook—the best food is the food I don’t have to make myself.”
He chuckles. “It’s not that hard. Just takes a bit of practice.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I set down my glass. “But you might have to show me sometime.”
“A private cooking class?” he asks, one brow raised.
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking. My breath catches in my throat as his hand brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is gentle, almost hesitant, but it sends a thrill through me.
But.
Now we’re interrupted, this time by the timer on the oven.