Chapter 18
SUTTON
Ishould know better by now. I really should, because this is becoming a pattern. I pull into the driveway, kill the engine, and sit there for a second, my hands still on the wheel, staring at the warm glow spilling from Shepherd’s kitchen window. And like clockwork the front door opens.
I don’t even pretend to be surprised anymore.
He leans against the frame like he’s been there the whole time, like he knew the exact moment I’d get home. Which, honestly? He probably did.
“Hey,” he calls out.
I sigh, already fighting a smile as I push open my door and step out into the cool evening air.
“Do you just…watch for my car now?” I ask, shutting the door behind me.
“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation.
“You’re not even going to deny it?”
He grins. “What would be the point?”
I shake my head, walking toward him, trying to bite back a smile. “You know some people call that a red flag.”
“Hmm.” He rubs his chin between his fingers. “Is there such a thing as an efficient flag?”
“Yeah. I think that’s worse,” I tell him.
He smiles and God, that smile. It should come with a damn warning label. I make it halfway up the walk before he pushes off the doorframe and steps down toward me.
“Good day?” he asks.
“Yeah. It was alright.”
“You eat yet?”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“There’s always a catch.”
“There’s not.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m cooking,” he says simply.
I pause because that wasn’t the answer I expected. “Okay.”
“And I’m making way too much food,” he adds, like that explains everything.
I huff a short laugh. “Of course you are.”
“So, you should come eat with me.”
I glance past him into the house, catching a glimpse of the kitchen. The lights are on and something is simmering on the stove, the faint scent of garlic drifting out into the night. It smells really good.
“You do realize this is becoming a habit, right?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Could be worse habits though, right?”
I narrow my eyes playfully. “Debatable.”
He leads me up the front steps, holding the door open because I’m nothing if not also predictable. “Fine,” I say. “But if it’s terrible, I’m leaving.”
“It’s not terrible.”
“You sound confident.”
“I am.”
“That’s suspicious.”
He laughs softly as I step inside. The kitchen is warm.
Not just temperature—though that too—but the kind of warmth that settles under your skin like a comforting blanket.
I almost hate how quickly my shoulders relax the second I walk in.
Like my body recognizes something my brain is still trying to fight.
“What are we making?” I ask, setting my bag on the counter.
“We?” He glances over his shoulder at me, one brow lifting slightly.
“Yes, we,” I insist, shrugging off my jacket. “I’m not just going to stand here and watch you cook like some kind of kitchen voyeur.”
His smile widens as he hands me a wooden spoon. “In that case, stir this while I finish chopping.”
I peer into the pot—a rich, fragrant sauce bubbling away—and begin stirring slowly. The domesticity of the moment should make me uncomfortable, but somehow it doesn’t. It feels…natural. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“Red or white?” I turn my head to see Shepherd holding two bottles of wine.
“Uh, I know I should say red, but I’m going to say white.”
“Perfect choice,” Shepherd says with a smile, setting the red bottle aside and reaching for a corkscrew. “This one’s a little sweeter, which will balance out the spice in the sauce.”
I continue stirring, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex as he works the corkscrew into the cork. It’s ridiculous how something so mundane can be so distracting when he does it.
“So, what exactly are we making?” I ask, focusing back on the pot.
“Pasta arrabbiata,” he says, the Italian rolling off his tongue with surprising ease. “My grandmother’s recipe.”
“You cook your grandmother’s recipes?” The question slips out before I can stop it, tinged with more surprise than I intended.
He pauses, glancing at me with those warm hazel eyes. “Why do you say it like that’s weird?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Just doesn’t seem like something a professional football player would do.”
“You mean something a man would do?” he challenges, but his tone remains light, teasing.
“No, I—” I start, then stop myself. “Okay, maybe a little of both. Though I’d argue being a quarterback doesn’t automatically make you ‘masculine’ in the traditional sense.
” I pause, realizing how that might sound.
“Not that you’re not masculine. You’re very…
” My eyes inadvertently drop to his forearms again, watching a vein run along his skin as he pours the wine. “…masculine.”
Oh my God. Did I just say that out loud?
Heat creeps up my neck as Shepherd hands me a glass, his fingers brushing mine in a way that sends little electric pulses straight up my arm. His lips quirk upward, and there’s something knowing in his eyes that makes my stomach flip.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, his voice dropping just slightly lower.
“It was meant as an observation,” I counter, taking a sip of wine to hide whatever my face is doing. The wine is perfect. Crisp and light with just a hint of sweetness.
“Observation. Compliment. I’ll accept either from you.”
I roll my eyes, but I can feel myself smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly charming?”
“That’s not what I said.”
He leans in as he reaches past me to adjust the heat under the pot. “It’s going to boil over,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear.
I freeze, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. For a heartbeat, we’re both perfectly still, suspended in this moment where his chest is nearly touching my back. It takes way more self-control than I want to have to not lean back into him and let him hold me.
But I don’t.
I keep reminding myself that he walked away from me my first morning here and that brings reality right back to the forefront of my mind.
Why didn’t he kiss me that day?
“Sorry,” he says, stepping away just as quickly. “Didn’t mean to crowd you.”
I clear my throat, desperately trying to regain my composure. “No, it’s fine. Thanks for saving dinner. My mom couldn’t cook dinner to save her life. Boxed mac and cheese was her specialty.”
Shepherd laughs, the sound warm and rich. “Nothing wrong with that. Comfort food is comfort food. My grandmother was the best cook I knew. When I was a kid, I’d sit on her kitchen counter and watch her make everything from scratch. No recipes, no measuring cups. Just instinct.”
“And she taught you?” I ask, trying not to notice how close he is, how the kitchen suddenly feels smaller.
“Some things. Other stuff I had to figure out on my own after she passed.” He continues chopping a green pepper, his expression thoughtful. “Cooking was how she showed love. I guess I picked up that habit too.”
The simplicity of his answer catches me off guard. There’s something so genuine about it that my chest tightens unexpectedly. I focus on my wine glass, tracing the rim with my finger.
“So, you cook elaborate meals and you build furniture out of wood. Is there anything you can’t do?”
He grins, and something warm and unfamiliar spreads through my chest.
“I can’t dance,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, at all. Two left feet doesn’t begin to cover it. My cousin’s wedding was a disaster.”
“No way. I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. I knocked over an entire table of wedding cake samples at the tasting. My cousin’s wife still hasn’t forgiven me.”
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its genuineness. “Okay, that I’d pay to see.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” he warns with a playful glint in his eye. “I might just take you up on that someday.”
The thought of “someday” with Shepherd makes my stomach flutter in a way I’m not ready to examine too closely, so I take another sip of wine instead.
“What about you?” he asks, pushing the chopped veggies off his cutting board and into the sauce. “What can’t Sutton Price do?”
“Trust people,” I say before I can stop myself. The honesty startles me as much as it seems to surprise him. Shepherd pauses, cutting board mid-air. His eyes find mine, something soft and understanding passing between us.
“I’m…” I shake my head embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
Other than the fact it’s the truest thing about me.
“Don’t apologize. That’s fair,” he says finally, his voice gentle as he glances back down at the sauce. “Trust is earned, not given.”
I expect him to push, to ask questions, but he doesn’t. Instead, he swiftly and effortlessly changes the subject. “So, what do you like to cook?”
“Um, nothing nearly this fancy,” I laugh. “I make a mean grilled cheese though.”
“Grilled cheese is an underappreciated art form,” he says with complete seriousness. “White bread or sourdough?”
“Sourdough, obviously. I’m not a monster.”
“Butter or mayo on the outside?”
“Butter. Wait, people use mayo?”
Ew.
He nods gravely. “They do. It’s controversial.”
“That’s not controversial. It’s downright disgusting.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” he says, bumping my hip gently with his. The casual contact sends a ripple of warmth through me that I try desperately to ignore.
“You know what else is disgusting on grilled cheese?”
“What’s that?” he questions.
“Mustard.”
He cringes and gives me a horrified look. “Mustard? On grilled cheese? Who does that?”
“My father, apparently,” I tell him. “My mom used to put mustard on my grilled cheese every time she made it, and I absolutely hated it every single time. I even asked her several times not to put mustard on mine. Like, it would’ve been less work for her, right?”
“Yeah. For sure.” He nods.
“Right! But she never listened. Always with the mustard.”
“Did you eat it?”
“Hell no! I usually hid it in my shirt and then went to my room and hid it under my dresser.”
Shepherd laughs, deep and throaty and the sound makes me smile. “No, you did not”