Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
“Spaghetti?” A deep, sexy chuckle leaves him. My already hard nipples grow almost painful at the sound.
“You asked if I was hungry,” I remind him. Does he want me to leave?
“Spaghetti it is.” He stands, offering me his hand. I take it.
Ocean might have been right about the whole love potion thing. That or Owen is now without a doubt my new obsession.
10
OWEN
“Where’d that come from?” Roxanne eyes the fresh spaghetti noodles I made earlier in the day, the pasta still sitting on the counter.
I shrug. “I like to make fresh pasta during the week. It just so happens I made spaghetti today.”
“You grow your own wheat or something?” She sits at the island, her eyes missing nothing as she looks at the stove, the cabinets, and the wine selection.
“I do. This is semolina wheat from last summer, the same variety they grow just outside Rome and all over Italy. My red wheat will come in at harvest this year, in the fall. I don’t grow a ton of it, just enough for some loaves here and there along with my pasta.” I grab a bottle and put two glasses on the counter. “This is from a vineyard I’m part owner of in California.”
“There aren’t any records about–” She bites her bottom lip.
“Pardon?” I ask as I fill her glass halfway and slide it to her.
“Nothing. My mind wanders sometimes.”
“That’s all right, Roxa–”
“Call me Maggie,” she blurts.
“Maggie?”
“Yes.” She sniffs the wine. “That’s what my friends call me. Just a nickname. You know.”
“How’d they get Maggie from Roxanne?”
“Just being funny, I guess. Ha ha, those jokesters.” She takes a big drink of her wine.
“I see.” I sip mine and put cookware on the stove, heating everything up as I take my homemade sauce from the fridge.
“What kind is it?”
“What kind? You mean the sauce? I use San Marzano tomatoes I grow myself. Also basil, onions, and garlic from my garden.”
“Are those the round tomatoes?” she asks, her nose scrunching up.
“No.” I go back to the fridge and pull out one of the tomatoes to show her. “Cylindrical. See?” I hand it to her.
She turns it over in her hand. “Good. Spherical fruits and vegetables kind of weird me out.”
“Hmm.” I nod. “We all have our eccentricities. Makes us unique.” I pull out a pan of meatballs from the under-the-counter prep fridge. “The meatballs are beef and pork. I hope that’s okay?”
“Fine, as long as it’s not lamb.”
“You don’t like lamb?”
She blinks. “How should I know? I’ve never eaten it. It’s just so … I mean, the sheep have all that wool.” She shivers. “Tangles on top of tangles. Think about it. A million circles all endlessly knotted together.”
“All right.” I can’t argue with her on that. She may be odd, but I find I like it. I feel like I could listen to her talk for hours, and I sure as hell have a million questions for her. I want to know everything there is to know. I’ve only just met her, but I get the feeling we’re kindred spirits, and the connection can’t be denied. Hell, I still have her taste on my tongue, and I only want more.
I loved what we just did on the couch, but I don’t want to spook her with going too far. Even so, my cock still aches from how hard it was only moments ago. The way she said my name–fuck. It makes my damn blood heat just remembering an echo of it.
“You okay?” She stares at my hands where I’m gripping the cheese grater so tightly it warps out of shape.
“I’m good. Just a fan of Parmesan, I suppose.”
“Me too. Any cheese is a good cheese. Except a cheese ball that people have at fancy parties. Why ruin it by making it a sphere?” She drinks her wine, her gaze roving along the back wall of the kitchen. “Is there a pantry?”
“Yes.” I point to the small room off to the right. “Something you want to snack on?”
“No.” She keeps sipping her wine as she focuses on me again.
I find when she’s looking at me that her stare is intense. Like a touch. It’s so direct and appraising, as if she’s judging every minute detail and assigning it some sort of value. Almost like a computer, but far, far sexier.
“You cook like this all the time?” Her voice goes up in pitch. “For other women?”
I shoot her a smile over my shoulder. “I cook, but not for other women.”
“Good. You shouldn’t. I don’t think you should have any women over at your house ever. Just me.”
“All right.” I’m not going to argue. She’s the one I want here, no one else.
She clears her throat. “Because, you know, it’s dangerous. I mean, the percentage of female serial killers compared to males is negligible but never zero.”