Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Footsteps thud inside, and I take a step back as the door is tugged open, and the shadowy shape of Hayes fills the doorway. Instinct drives me to sweep my gaze down his big body, over the broadness of his chest and the tightness of his waist, over the thickness of his powerful legs and the bareness of his feet.
Jeez. He has bare feet, and for all his size and strength, they seem so vulnerable. I guess I must be staring because he makes an amused sound, like a laugh through his nose.
“Riley, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Err…” I flounder, embarrassed enough at getting caught out that my face burns. “Just waiting to be invited inside.”
“Like a vampire?”
“Yeah. I’m a bloodsucker, but only after midnight.”
He checks his watch, then nods like he’s relieved there are a few hours before I go to work on his neck. “Then you better come in.”
I have to turn sideways to pass him in the narrow hallway, and the scent of a freshly washed Hayes is an aphrodisiac I’m not prepared for.
I imagined dinner with Hayes to be a simple affair. Something basic but filling, the kind of thing that athletes make and brag about in boring podcasts and social media posts. Nothing convoluted. Just two people trying to muddle through whatever this evening is.
I didn’t expect him to put in gourmet-level effort.
But as he leads me into the kitchen, I’m blown away by the setup and even more by how he tosses a towel over his shoulder and focuses on the food. The smell of butter and garlic makes my stomach growl.
“Take a seat,” he says, draining pasta into the sink.
I shrug off my coat, resting it over the back of the chair. The table, which is designed for four, is laid for two. A bottle of beer is already open for me, and I pour it, smiling.
This is nice.
It gets even nicer when he presents me with a bowl of spaghetti in a homemade butter and garlic sauce with lemon rind, green parsley and grated parmesan. It’s the kind of thing I’d order in a restaurant.
“Wow. This is…”
“Better than you were expecting. A man can be good at more than one thing.”
“I’m sorry that I thought otherwise.”
“What did you imagine I’d make for you?”
“I don’t even know,” I admit. “I was hoping it would be edible, and I wasn’t going to have to chop it into pieces and hide it under my napkin.”
He snorts, twirling the pasta around his fork like a native Italian. That one gesture gets my loins stirring like some old-world Italian Contessa. “Maybe you should try it before you get too excited.”
I do, and it tastes even better than it smells, creamy but fresh, with a hint of heat. “What did you add to make it spicy?” I ask.
“A little cayenne. I like some heat.”
Our eyes hold, and the heat he spoke about settles low in my belly. I like heat, too. The kind of heat I know Hayes can produce, in and out of the kitchen.
“Pasta is my happy place.”
“It’s God’s food,” he says. “Although, Coach and the team nutritionist would look at this meal and scowl at the lack of protein.”
“There’s protein in cheese.”
“Exactly.”
“You can do so much with pasta. Ravioli, lasagna, baked ziti…”
“Mac and cheese.”
“Yes! Exactly!” I wave my fork. “Pasta is the blueprint for happiness.”
He leans back in his chair and reaches for his beer. “Happiness, huh? That’s a bold statement. I was aiming to fill you up, not achieve the pinnacle of the human experience.”
“Pasta’s good, but it can’t achieve that.”
“Oh?” His voice is casual, but he’s watching me closely with a smile playing on his lips. “And what can achieve that?”
“Chocolate,” I say firmly.
“Chocolate.” He lowers his beer and rubs his unshaven chin. “So, you’re asserting that chocolate is better than pasta?”
“It’s close.” I take a mouthful and chew, still marveling at the restaurant-quality flavor. “But chocolate has the edge.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, it’s portable.”
“Pasta can be portable if you have Tupperware.”
“It doesn’t need to be heated.”
“Pasta salad,” he reminds me. “That can be cold.”
I rack my brain for more benefits, enjoying our banter, but still determined to win.
“You can’t spread pasta over someone’s body and lick it off.”
His blue eyes, which up until now had been light with laughter, darken. “Both are possible but messy, but I’ll give it to you. Chocolate has the edge when it comes to bodies and spreading,” he counters, his lips tugging into a faint smile.
The word ‘spreading’ shouldn’t sound so explicit coming from his lips, but it does. The memory of wrapping my legs around him in the truck pushes forward. I huff out a quiet laugh, and for a moment, the tension I’ve been carrying disappears. Anyone who likes pasta and chocolate as much as I do and can debate their pros and cons can’t be all bad.