Chapter 7 Hope
HOPE
“How’s the beer?”
Focusing on rolling the meatballs like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, I avoid eye contact. The last thing I need to do is run around the island and wrap my arms around him. Keeping my hands occupied means they aren’t free to wander of their own accord.
Frost keeps pretending he’s fine, but I can feel the tension rolling off him.
He sits straight-backed on the stool, beer in hand, like he’s ready to bolt if I say the wrong thing.
He’s quiet, but his eyes track every move I make, from me stirring the sauce to adding spices.
He even seems to track when I shift my weight.
He’s not watching in a possessive way, more like he’s memorizing it. No one’s ever looked at me like that. It's unnerving, but at the same time, kind of wonderful.
My sauce is coming together nicely, deep red and fragrant, exactly how mom taught me.
I stir it slowly, letting the garlic soften in the tomatoes, and breathing in the sweet, savory smell.
When I toss in more basil, it releases that fresh garden scent that always reminds me of summers with my grandmother.
I swear Frost closes his eyes for half a second when it hits the air.
He likes this. He likes being here, even if he thinks he shouldn’t.
“So,” I say, rolling another meatball. “You never told me what you actually do for fun.”
His mouth quirks. “I didn’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He lifts his beer and takes a long sip like he’s buying time. “Been a while since anyone asked.”
Something in my chest softens. This man is harboring some heavy things. I don’t know what, but I want to.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’m asking now.”
He looks at me then, really looks. The heat from the stove feels tame compared to his gaze.
“I’m… working on it,” he says, the words sounding like a confession.
“Well. You’re doing pretty well tonight.”
He lets out a soft laugh while he looks down at the beer bottle, turning it slowly in his hand.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, rolling another meatball. “You haven’t bolted yet. That’s progress.”
His mouth curves. “Was that an option?”
“It’s always an option,” I tell him. “But I reserve the right to judge you for it.”
“Oh, I see. So, I’d be allowed to leave, but you’d mock me forever.”
“Exactly.”
He looks at me again with the same intense stare that makes the air feel warmer than it should. “Guess I’ll stay, then.”
I try to keep my face neutral, but I can’t stop the smile that tugs my lips. “Oh, good. I was worried I’d have to bribe you to stay.”
“With garlic bread?”
I freeze mid meatball roll. “Garlic bread?”
“You’re making garlic bread too, right?”
I narrow my eyes dramatically. “Maybe.”
Frost leans back on the stool like he’s reconsidering his entire life’s trajectory. “You opened with homemade spaghetti sauce and meatballs and saved the garlic bread reveal for later?”
“It’s called dramatic timing,” I say, shaping another meatball with exaggerated precision. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You know,” he says slowly. “I think you’re getting off on tormenting me.”
“Maybe I am.”
His eyes rake down my body, making my stomach flip. “Maybe I am, too,” he says quietly.
I clear my throat, flustered, and drop the meatball onto the tray. “Flattery will not get you more bread.”
He smirks. “Maybe I’m not trying to get more bread.”
I glance up, but he’s looking at the sauce now, like he didn’t just drop a small bomb into the room.
“Anyway,” I say, forcing lightness back into my voice. “What do you do for fun? We were discussing your nonexistent hobbies.”
He gives me a look. “I have hobbies.”
“Oh yeah?”
He shrugs. “I ride.”
I raise both eyebrows. “Ride? Like your motorcycle?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” I say. “You ride, what else?”
He thinks for a long moment before answering. “I rebuild cars,” he says.
“You do?”
“Yeah, back home when I’m not traveling,” he explains. “I love bringing classics back to life.”
My hands soften around the next meatball. “That counts,” I whisper.
He nods once. “Figured it might.”
A comfortable silence stretches out. The sauce bubbles quietly on the stove. The smell of basil and garlic fills every inch of the air between us. His gaze drifts back to me, lingering a second too long.
“Your turn,” he says.
“Oh, no. No, no.” I point a basil leaf at him. “We weren’t done with you.”
“You asked,” he counters. “Now I get to ask.”
“But I wasn’t prepared.”
“That’s not my problem.”
I roll my eyes even though I’m smiling. “Fine. I cook.”
“That’s obvious. What else?”
“I write romance novels.”
He chuckles. “That’s what you do professionally, right?” I nod. “Then how is that something you do for fun?”
“When you do something you love for a living, it’s not really work,” I explain. “At least, that’s what my mom’s always saying.”
He swallows hard, and his face falls. “Smart woman.”
I force the conversation back to safer ground. “Okay, well. Since you know what I do… what’s your opinion?”
“My opinion on what?”
“On romance.”
He looks at me for a long, slow second. “I know you write about it…” He takes a sip of beer. “But have you ever really experienced it?”
The last meatball slips out of my hand and lands with a thud on the pan, slightly flattening.
“W-what do you mean?” I ask.
He gives a small, crooked smile. “The books you write, have you ever experienced the type of romance your characters have?” he murmurs.
“No,” I admit, slightly embarrassed. “Have you?”
“No.” He meets my gaze squarely. “I have a feeling that’s about to change, though.”
Oh… Oh.
The room suddenly feels too warm. I turn back to the meatballs before I do something ridiculous, like drop the entire tray and jump his bones. This man is absolutely going to ruin me, and I’m starting to think I’m going to let him.