Chapter 22 #2
hand, the light blue cotton wrapping around his full bicep.
I cross my arms, lifting my chin to meet him. “I can’t stay,” I reiterate, mostly to myself.
“And why’s that?” His face furrows ever so slightly, the lamplight deepening his brow and emphasizing the end-of-day stubble scattered across his jaw. The urge to run my fingers over it, to feel the prickles against my skin is undeniable.
I tilt my head, running a hand through my hair as I lean against the doorframe. “It’s been a long day.”
His gaze follows my fingers, then drops back to me. “All the more reason to relax and have a drink with me.” He smiles, coaxing
a matching one from my lips.
I sniff the air. “I also don’t want to keep you from your dinner.” My mouth waters at the smell, rosemary maybe? Something
earthy and savory that I can’t quite place but smells amazing.
“Have you eaten tonight?” he says, sliding one hand into the pocket of his jeans.
I huff a laugh. “If by ‘eaten,’ you mean inhaled a fruity protein bar I found in the back of the office cupboard, then yes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just get in here.” He takes my free hand, like he knows I need to be alleviated of the burden of choice,
culpable innocence in the face of late-night mistakes. My fingers tingle in his as he guides me through the doorway into the
warmly lit apartment.
My shoes click on the herringbone wood flooring as I ease off my coat, place it on the black coatrack, and follow Oliver into
the kitchen. The building feels brand-new, but the mid-century-style interior, arching windows, and the giant ficus in the
corner make the apartment feel warm, moody, and lived in. “This is not how I was imagining Dominic’s apartment.”
He tilts his head. “What were you imagining?”
“The Fortress of Solitude.” I nod.
“That’s over there.” He points to what I imagine is Dominic’s bedroom.
“And where’s yours?” I ask, the seemingly innocent question burning my cheeks.
He smirks, nodding his chin down the hallway. “The much smaller one down there.”
“Awww, I hope you don’t have square footage envy.” I pout.
“How does that old saying go? It’s not how big your bedroom is, it’s how you use it.” His eyes glint mischievously.
I blush, letting out a nervous laugh.
Sensing my awkwardness, he changes the subject, gesturing around the kitchen. “But this is mostly my domain.”
“So you are the cat sitter and his personal chef?” I glance over the kitchen counters, which have an air of organized chaos,
clean but cluttered. Tupperware containers and chopping boards stacked neatly like Legos.
“You’d be shocked and appalled by the amount of takeout consumed in this household.” My mind jumps to the image of Oliver
and Dominic hanging out, watching TV, and eating Chinese food out of the plastic tubs.
“So what’s the special occasion?” I ask, gesturing to the bubbling pot on the stovetop.
His gaze runs over the busy countertops before reaching me. “An emergency hostage negotiation. I thought you might be hostile,
so I wanted to get on your good side.”
I look down at my leggings, oversized sweater, and boots. “I’m not dressed for dinner, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
He purses his lips, taking the opportunity to scan up and down my body. “I think you look perfect for truffle and rosemary
pasta.”
I stare at a bloodred pasta maker on the kitchen counter with fresh flour sprinkled over its machinery. “You handmade pasta?”
He shrugs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You said you didn’t get to eat any pasta in Rome. I’m only an eighth Italian,
but I think it’s pretty good.”
My knees weaken. “You’re kidding? How long did this take you?”
His small smattering of freckles becomes more pronounced as his cheeks redden. “I’d rather not say. I need to retain a small
amount of my dignity.”
“And you made me ice cream?” I can’t help but sound like an awestruck little girl when I see the freshly cleaned machine on
another counter; there’s no way to make that question sound like it came from the mouth of a high-functioning adult.
He leans against the counter. “Well, I didn’t know what kind you’d like, so I made three. Miso vanilla gelato, sea salt chocolate
ice cream, and strawberry sorbet.”
My heart palpitates; nothing has ever been as sexy as that sentence.
I look at him as though he’s crazy, but my chest is swelling. Nobody has ever done something so nice for me with no expectation
that I would even show up to receive it.
I gravitate toward him, overlapping my fingers with his on the countertop. “Thank you. I can’t believe you did this, especially
when you didn’t know if I’d even show up.”
His palm flips upward, rubbing his thumb against my fingers, turning them into live wires. “I thought worst-case scenario
if I didn’t get to see you at least I could eat my feelings.”
I glance briefly at his lips, then swallow. “A solid plan B.”
“So will you stay for dinner?” He looks slightly nervous as he asks, but his hand confidently glides around my wrist and runs the length of my arm.
“You’ve presented a very strong argument.” I follow his movement, holding onto his forearm as we inch closer together.
He studies my face, tucking my hair behind my ear before cupping the side of my jaw. I lean into the warm touch.
A wooden spoon hits the stovetop with a clang as the saucepan starts to bubble over. “Fuck,” he says, dropping his hands and
lurching toward the oven dials, taking the bubbling pappardelle off the heat.
I laugh, grabbing the kitchen roll and throwing it to him. He catches it with one hand, which is way more attractive than
it should be.
We talk and eat at the kitchen counter. Well, I eat and drink at the counter and try not to moan in pleasure at the delicious
pasta. Oliver stands with a towel thrown over his shoulder, taking big bites from his plate as he puts the finishing touches
on dessert and makes us orange Negroni spritzes. It’s sexy, seeing him in his element. At one point, I feed him from my fork
while he stirs a bowl of sorbet until it freezes over ice. I try not to focus my attention on how his biceps tense or his
lips as he runs his tongue over them. He tries not to focus on my finger as I lick a spot of pasta sauce from it. Okay, maybe
I did that one on purpose.
Despite his protests, I help him clean the kitchen: wiping down surfaces, loading bowls and plates into the very high-tech
dishwasher, and trying not to watch how his shoulders flex when he lifts pots and pans into the sink.
We meander into the living room for dessert; he’s adorably nervous as I try each ice cream and deliberate the merits of each as though I’m a judge on MasterChef. In reality, the only way to improve upon his recipe is if I could eat it off him instead.
“I think that was the greatest meal I’ve ever had.” I sigh, leaning back into the sofa as my leg grazes his.
He laughs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t flatter me. I can do a lot better than that if you gave me the chance.”
I ignore the fluttering feeling in my stomach at the almost ask out; the moment holds for a dangerously long time until heat
washes over me. Warren Buffet chooses to be the ultimate wingwoman and appears with the cutest little mew I’ve ever heard.
She saunters up to Oliver and brushes her face against his legs. Her fluffy tail curls around his calf like she’s claiming
him, her purr intensifying as her mouth opens. Like she knows I was moments away from wrapping myself around him.
“I think it’s dinnertime,” he says to both of us. “Gimme one minute.”
He strokes a palm along her back as he lifts himself off the sofa, and she jovially pads after him. I can’t help a smile creeping
across my face when I hear him talking to her in the kitchen.
“Were you just having a conversation with Warren Buffett?” I suck in my cheeks, trying not to laugh.
When he reenters the room, he holds his hands out incredulously. “I had to explain to her what I made.”
“Oh my god, did you make her dinner too?”
He runs a hand over his face, reclaiming the seat next to me. “Okay I will admit something if you promise to never tell another
soul.”
The sofa dips slightly, and I let it draw me closer to him as I mimic crossing my heart.
He tugs at his shirt sleeve. “Dominic insists she needs to be on a special diet, which has to be freshly prepared twice a day.”
I cough out a laugh. “Is she one of the weird designer-breed cats or something?”
“No, she’s from a shelter. They found her on her own in a trash can as a kitten.”
My chest twinges at the idea of her as a sad little kitten—how lucky she was to be found.
I clear my throat. “And what’s on the menu tonight?”
“Chicken liver.” His mouth tightens into a straight line.
“Gross. I think what you made me was better.” Not that it’s a competition, but I’m oddly envious of her getting to see him
every day.
He holds out a hand. “Hey, don’t knock my cat cooking. I’m pretty sure my cooking is the best thing she’s ever tasted.”
“Lucky girl, having you tend to her every night.” The two words leave me in a way I didn’t intend, making me blush.
He huffs a laugh, shyly looking down at his drink.
I try to change the subject. “And what’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted?” I take a sip of my Negroni, the acidity dancing across my tongue a stark contrast to the velvety ice cream.
He opens his mouth on a silent laugh, then closes it, tilting his head my way with a devilish look. “There is one thing, but
I haven’t tried it yet.”
“Why not?” I say, running the edge of the glass with my finger.
He shifts his weighted gaze back to the tumbler in his lap. “Bad timing.” He smiles behind the glass before taking a sip,
letting the crest of the orange liquid linger on his mouth.
I take in a deep breath. “And if you had all the time in the world?”
He cuts a look to my lips. “You really wanna know?”
I swallow, nodding as my nerves crackle.
His shoulders shift as he moves toward me in a slow, smooth motion, taking the drink out of my hand and placing it on the