FOURTEEN
Rome followed the low clatter of pots and pans to the kitchen, his instincts bringing him straight to Stina.
He walked in to see flour already dusted across the expanse of counter beside a contraption that she claimed was a pasta press that they’d dragged downstairs from their trip to the ski resort.
A glass jar sat near the edge of the counter with some pale, bubbly liquid inside it. Rome picked it up, eyeing it with caution.
“Put down Edna,” Stina said without looking up from a recipe book, also from the Montclair kitchen.
He stared at the glass jar like it might detonate. “Who is Edna?” he asked slowly.
“My sourdough starter.” She crossed the kitchen and plucked the jar out of his hands with the brisk efficiency of a SEAL. “She’s been alive longer than some of my relationships, so show some respect.”
He snorted. “That doesn’t sound like a high bar.”
“Exactly.” She sent him a coy glance and set the jar down in the exact spot.
He held up both hands and backed away. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of royalty. And what exactly is a sourdough starter?”
“It’s the mix you use to start sourdough bread. It’s common for chefs to name them.”
He bit back a smile and reached for the pasta press instead. After she dragged it to the kitchen, she’d cleaned it and coaxed it into working order with the stubborn determination she applied to everything.
At the other end of the counter was a drying rack for pasta they had to reassemble. During that time, several of his teammates wandered into the kitchen to offer assistance, but Stina waved them away with the claim she and Rome had it covered.
“It looks like you’ve created an assembly line.”
Her face lit up, and she was so stunning that for a heartbeat, he couldn’t find enough air to fill his lungs. “That’s exactly what this is!”
He drifted close enough to trap her against the counter. “So what are we making?”
“Linguine. With clam sauce.”
When he reached for her, she spun away, and his fingers only grazed her waist.
He leaned against the counter, watching her measure flour from a bin.
“And we’re making bread too, because apparently I can’t be in the kitchen for ten minutes without making a new batch.”
“Is that a medical condition?” He watched her dump flour onto the counter and create a well in the center.
“It’s becoming a personality trait.” She smiled at him. “Come crack the eggs for me.”
“I’d like to crack something else.”
She threw her head back on a laugh and bumped her shoulder against his as he moved in to help. “You sound like Jolie’s brothers when they were teenagers. Everything you said had an innuendo.”
He picked up an egg and cracked it cleanly into the well.
Stina blinked up at him. “You didn’t even get shell in it.”
“You’re not the only person who knows how to cook.”
She gave him a flat look. “Jolie said before her classes started, she took over the kitchen a few days a week, and Younger microwaves everything.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know how.” He cracked another.
“You definitely have strong hands.”
“And a soft touch.” He waggled his brows.
The sparkle in her eyes heated his chest.
She began working the flour in from the edges, slow and deliberate, the dough coming together under her hands in a way that looked effortless. He found he couldn’t look away from the focus on her face, the small furrow between her brows and the way she leaned into the motion with her whole body.
“You’re staring.” She didn’t glance away from her task.
“Supervising.” He moved in behind her, close enough to feel the warmth of her, and put his hands over hers on the dough. “Show me.”
She went still for half a second and he felt the air catch in her lungs before she recovered. She guided his hands through the motion, folding the dough, her fingers laced loosely over his in a way that wasn’t at all erotic but made him hard anyway.
“Don’t overwork it or it will get tough.”
“I’d never overwork something.” He pressed his lips to the side of her neck, just below her ear, and her pulse jumped beneath his lips.
She issued a ragged breath. “That’s unhelpful to the pasta-making process.”
“I’m a multitasker,” he rumbled against her skin.
“You’re a menace.” She tilted her head despite her words, giving him better access even as she kept working the dough and he gave up the fight and kneaded her hips instead.
After she had the dough in a ball to rest, he whirled her to face him and captured her surprised laugh beneath his lips. The sound turned into a moan as she melted into the caress.
By the time they surfaced again, she declared it was time to roll the dough through the press. They worked together, with her feeding it through in increasingly thinner sheets while he caught it on the other side.
They draped the long ribbons of linguine over the drying rack. Halfway through the job, she flicked flour at him, and he retaliated—only better—managing to cover her whole chest in flour.
She burst out laughing and held on to the counter for support.
“This is your fault,” she said between giggles, wiping a towel down the front of her top. He didn’t want to tell her that she wore his floury fingerprints on her hips and looked so damn adorable he’d rather carry her off to bed and settle for one of Younger’s meals.
“You’re the one who weaponized a baking ingredient,” he told her.
“It was self-defense.”
He cocked a brow. “Against what?”
“Your face. It was doing a thing.”
“What thing?”
She studied him for a moment, flour dusted across her dark hair and one cheek, her eyes bright with things that had nothing to do with pasta.
“I don’t know.” Her voice pitched lower, and she dashed her tongue over her full bottom lip. “A thing.”
He didn’t have an answer for what was on his face—he only knew what was going on in his chest. He reached out and brushed the flour from her cheek with the pad of his thumb, a slow swipe, letting it linger far longer than the task required.
The air shifted between them, and neither moved to break it.
Then she cleared her throat and turned back to the stove, brisk once again. “Clam sauce isn’t going to make itself.”
He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand. “There’s something I should’ve told you sooner.”
She looked up at him, her smile fading. “What is it?”
“Your parents are okay.”
She went completely still.
“They were contacted a few days ago. A man showed up asking questions about you. They did exactly what they should have done and called the police.”
Fear flashed across her face.
“They’re safe,” he said before the worry could take hold. “The call eventually made its way to us. Cannon had me speak with your dad.”
“You talked to my parents?”
He nodded once. “I wanted to tell you then, but there was already too much coming at you. Once I knew they were safe, I figured you didn’t need one more thing to carry.”
She swallowed hard. “What...what did my dad say?”
Rome’s chest tightened all over again. “He asked where you were.”
She closed her eyes.
“I couldn’t tell him.”
“I know.”
“I told him you were safe. That you were being protected.”
A shaky breath left her.
“He told me to tell you that he and your mom love you.”
Tears filled her eyes instantly.
“And he said to come home when you can.”
One escaped and slid down her cheek.
Rome reached up and brushed it away with his thumb.
“There was one more thing.”
She waited.
“Before we hung up...” His voice lowered. “He asked me to keep you alive.”
Her lips trembled. “He doesn’t even know you.”
“No.” Rome held her gaze. “But he knew someone was standing between you and the people trying to hurt you.”
She stepped into him without another word, wrapping both arms around his waist. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He rested his cheek against the top of her head.
“I made him a promise.”
She tipped her face up.
“What promise?”
Rome’s hand settled at the back of her neck. “That I’d do everything in my power to bring you home.” He held her for a long minute until the emotional moment passed.
After he released her, Stina moved through the rest of the meal like a woman in her element—garlic and butter in the pan, clams added at precisely the right moment, white wine also looted from the resort deglazing the bottom with a hiss that filled the kitchen with steam and the smell of the sea.
He gave up trying to make himself useful and watched her move around the room like she was born to be here.
He could stand here and keep watching her do this very thing…forever.
The thought struck him square in the chest with more force than he expected.
He didn’t get this. He didn’t get flour fights with a woman who named sourdough starter.
He’d long ago accepted that Blackout was his life, the same way every man in his position did.
There was no room left for anything that could be used against them.
Except…some of the guys had made it work. Alpha and Charlie. And right here, Monk and Jolie defied the restrictions.
That could be him and Stina.
Rome shut down the thought before it could gain traction.
When he focused on Stina again, he saw she’d set two plates on the table. The linguine glistened with butter and white wine, clam shells scattered in an artful array across the top. She’d sliced crusty, golden bread and it sat on another plate.
She took her seat, and he could barely make his body move, he was so frozen by what was going on in his head but he sat across from her.
She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself. She had every right to be. She was fucking amazing.
“Well? Have a taste and let me know your opinion.” She gestured at his plate.
He picked up his fork, twisted it through the pasta and took a bite.
He groaned without meaning to. It was, without question, one of the best things he’d ever eaten.
But he knew that under the taste of garlic and butter and good bread, that the meal wasn’t the thing he was going to remember most about tonight.
He swallowed and smiled at her. “It’s good.”
He might be downplaying his reaction just to get a rise from her. To see that little lift of her chin.
It worked.
“Just good?”