CHAPTER EIGHT
SUNDAY PASTA
Jordie
Sunday nights are for pasta.
This is a hill I will die on.
I learned it from my Nonna before she passed. Every Sunday, without fail, the whole family gathered around her table. It didn’t matter if you had plans, homework, or a game. Sunday dinner was mandatory. Sacred.
It’s the only tradition from the Dickson family playbook that doesn’t make me want to set something on fire.
So when I moved into this house, I declared it: Sunday pasta nights. Non-negotiable.
Wyatt showed up the first time because I guilted him. The second time because the food was good. Now he just appears at six PM like clockwork, no questions asked.
Grant’s harder.
Captain Emotionally Constipated likes to pretend he’s above things like carbs and human connection. He spends his Sundays brooding in his room or at the rink, punishing himself for crimes only he knows about.
Not tonight. Not if I have anything to say about it.
“Grant!” I bang on his door. “Dinner in ten. Get your ass downstairs.”
“Not hungry.”
“Don’t care. It’s Sunday.”
“Dickson—”
“I will break down this door. Don’t test me.”
Silence. Then footsteps. The door swings open.
Grant stands there shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, hair wet from the shower. He looks like he just finished destroying himself in the home gym we have in the basement.
“I’m not coming to dinner,” he says.
“Yes, you are.”
“No. I’m not.”
I grab his shirt collar—the one he’s holding, not wearing—and start dragging him toward the stairs.
“What the fuck, Dickson—”
“Sunday. Pasta. Night.” I punctuate each word with a tug. “You’re coming.”
“Let go of me.”
“Put a shirt on, and I will.”
He could fight me. He’s bigger: six foot three to my six one. But I’ve got stubbornness and the moral high ground.
Also, I think part of him wants to be dragged. Wants someone to make him be human for an hour.
He yanks his shirt on with more force than necessary. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic. Now move.”
Downstairs, Elise is already in the kitchen. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder. Her hair’s in a loose braid. She looks soft. Approachable.
Dangerous.
I’ve been trying not to think about that kiss in her room. The way she tasted. The way she fit against me like she was made for it.
The way she sent me away after.
“Hey.” I grab an apron off the hook and toss one to her. “You’re on vegetable duty.”
She catches it and raises an eyebrow. “Am I?”
“Yep. Chop that.” I gesture to the cutting board I’ve already set up: peppers, onions, garlic. “Small pieces. We’re making arrabbiata.”
“Bossy.”
“Efficient.” I flash her my best grin. “There’s a difference.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. She ties the apron on and starts chopping.
Wyatt appears right at six. He doesn’t say anything; he just grabs a beer from the fridge and sits at the kitchen island to watch.
Grant stalks in behind him, still radiating don’t-touch-me energy.
I ignore it, put water on to boil, and start on the sauce.
This is my element. Cooking calms me, gives my hands something to do, and my brain something to focus on besides the constant anxiety that I’m not good enough, smart enough, or fast enough on the ice.
Elise works beside me. Our arms keep brushing, and every time it happens, my skin lights up.
She’s warm—like, physically warm. She radiates heat as if she runs ten degrees hotter than normal humans.
I want to lean into it. Into her.
Instead, I focus on not burning the garlic.
“You’re good at this,” she says.
I glance over. She’s watching me with those hazel eyes, the ones that shift between green and gold depending on her mood.
Right now? They’re gold.
“I’m good at a lot of things.” The words come out flirtier than I mean them to.
Her lips twitch. “Modest, too.”
“Modesty’s overrated.” I bump her hip with mine. “So’s mediocrity. If you’re good at something, own it.”
“Is that a Jordie Dickson original?”
“Nah. My Nonna used to say it. Well, in Italian. It sounded better in Italian.”
“What else did she say?”
“That I talk too much. That I need to find a nice girl and settle down. That my father’s an idiot for caring more about polls than people.” I stir the sauce and add a pinch of red pepper flakes. “She died when I was sixteen. I miss her every day.”
Elise’s expression softens. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
We work in silence for a minute: her chopping, me cooking, Wyatt watching us like we’re a nature documentary, and Grant pretending he’s not also watching while he scrolls his phone.
The domesticity of it hits me sideways. This could be my life: cooking with a woman I’m falling for, friends at the table, Sunday nights that mean something.
But it’s not my life. It’s temporary— a semester, maybe a year. Then we all scatter to wherever our careers take us.
The thought makes my chest tight.
“You okay?” Elise asks quietly.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re frowning at the sauce.”
I am. I force my expression back to neutral. “Just making sure it’s perfect.”
“It will be. You’re good at this.”
She says it again. This time, I hear what she means—not just the cooking, but the way I make people feel included, wanted. The way I turn a house into something closer to a home.
“Thanks,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than I want.
She smiles. It’s small, private—just for me.
My heart does something stupid.
I lean in. Can’t help it. She’s close and warm and smiling at me like that.
“Can I—?”
My eyes drop to her lips. I’m going to kiss her right here in the kitchen with Wyatt and Grant ten feet away.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
I’m doing it anyway.
Then Grant walks to the cabinet and slams it so hard the dishes rattle.
Elise and I both jump and step apart.
The moment shatters.
Grant doesn’t look at us. He just grabs a glass, fills it with water, and drinks it in three swallows like he’s trying to drown something.
I laugh because what else can I do?
Elise’s cheeks are pink. She goes back to chopping with more focus than vegetables require.
Grant sets his glass down hard. “Pasta almost ready?”
“Ten minutes,” I say.
“Good.”
He leaves the kitchen. We hear him in the living room, turning on the TV too loud.
Wyatt takes a long drink of his beer. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression says plenty.
I finish the sauce, drain the pasta, and toss everything together with fresh basil and too much parmesan because that’s how Nonna made it.
“Dinner’s ready,” I call.
We all sit. The table’s too small for four people, but we make it work—elbows bumping, passing bowls, the forced intimacy of shared space.
I serve and make sure everyone has enough. It’s what I do: take care of people, make sure they’re fed and comfortable and feel like they belong.
Even when I’m not sure I belong anywhere myself.
“This is incredible, Jordie,” Elise says, biting her lip.
For a minute, we just eat. The silence is loaded, charged with everything we’re not saying.
Then I break it because I can’t help myself.
“So.” I twirl pasta on my fork. “How’s everyone doing with Carol’s rules?”
Wyatt chokes on his beer.
Elise looks up, eyes wide.
Grant’s jaw ticks. “What?”
“You know. The roommate agreement. No overnight guests of a romantic nature. Stay clothed in shared spaces. Don’t fuck your roommates.” I grin. “Just checking in. Making sure everyone’s compliant.”
“You’re an idiot,” Grant mutters.
“Just being thorough.” I look around the table. “Anyone struggling? Need support? A sponsor?”
“Jordie—” Elise starts.
“Because I’ll be honest.” I lean back in my chair. “I’m struggling. Like, really struggling. It’s been ten days, and I’m already losing my mind.”
Wyatt’s lips twitch. Almost a smile.
Grant glares at me. “Shut up.”
“I’m just saying. Living with an attractive woman who walks around in those tiny shorts—” I gesture to Elise. “It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”
Her face goes scarlet. “Oh my—”
“I’m horny, okay? There. I said it.” I throw my hands up. “Someone had to.”
“Nobody had to,” Grant growls.
“I disagree. Honesty is important in a household.” I look at Wyatt. “Back me up here.”
Wyatt takes another drink and sets his beer down carefully. “It’s been so long I’ve forgotten what sex feels like.”
I bark out a laugh. “See? Wyatt gets it.”
“That’s not what I—” Wyatt stops. Shrugs.
Elise is covering her face with her hands, but she’s laughing. I can hear it.
“You’re all twisted, you know that?” Her voice is muffled.
“Twisted? I prefer ‘emotionally honest.’” I spear a piece of red pepper. “Besides, we all signed that contract under duress. I think we’re entitled to complain about it.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Grant says.
“I’m being realistic.” I point my fork at him. “You’re just better at repressing things. It’s not healthy, by the way. You should talk to someone about that.”
“Dickson—”
“I want to fuck Elise.”
The words come out before I can stop them. Too loud. Too honest.
The table goes silent.
Wyatt freezes mid-drink. Elise’s eyes go huge. Grant’s hand curls into a fist on the table.
I should take it back. Laugh it off. Pretend I was joking.
I don’t.
“There. I said it.” I meet Grant’s glare head-on. “I want to fuck our roommate. I think she’s gorgeous and smart, and I can’t stop thinking about her. So yeah, I’m struggling with Carol’s rules.”
Grant stands. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Away from this conversation.”
“Why? Because I’m being honest?”
“Because you’re being an idiot.” His voice is low. Dangerous. “She’s our roommate.”
“So?”
“So you don’t—” He stops. His jaw works. “You just don’t.”
“Don’t what? Want her? Too late. Already do.”
Grant’s eyes flash. For a second, I think he’s going to hit me.
Then he leaves. He storms upstairs. His door slams hard enough to shake the house.
Wyatt lets out a low whistle. “That went well.”
“He’s just mad because he wants her too,” I say.
“Jordie.” Elise’s voice is quiet. Strained.
I look at her. She’s staring at her plate, cheeks still pink. She won’t meet my eyes.
Fuck. I went too far.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was… I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You think?” But she’s smiling. Just a little. “You can’t just announce you want to sleep with someone at the dinner table.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to say it.”
“I disagree. I think we should all be more honest about what we want.” I lean forward. “Don’t you?”
She finally looks at me. Those hazel eyes searching my face for something.
“What I want is complicated,” she says.
“So?”
She lifts her chin. “Common sense. The roommate agreement. Grant.”
“Fuck Grant.”
Wyatt snorts. “I don’t think that’s what Jordie wants to do.”
I flip him off. He grins.
Elise is shaking her head, but she’s laughing. “You’re both impossible.”
“Impossible is my middle name.”
“I thought it was trouble.”
“That’s my confirmation name.”
She laughs harder. The sound fills the kitchen. It makes everything feel lighter.
I love that sound. I want to hear it every day.
I want to be the reason for it.
“For what it’s worth,” Wyatt says, addressing his pasta, “I think Carol’s rules are bullshit.”
“Thank you!” I point at him. “Finally. Someone with sense.”
“Didn’t say I was going to break them. Just said they’re bullshit.”
We finish dinner. The conversation shifts to safer topics: school, hockey—anything but the elephant in the room. Or rather, the sexual tension that’s basically a fifth roommate at this point.
When we’re done, Elise helps me clean up. Wyatt disappears to his room, and Grant stays upstairs.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says, handing me a dried plate. “It was good.”
“Just good?”
“Amazing. Incredible. Best pasta I’ve ever had.”
“That’s more like it.”
She hip-checks me. I hip-check her back. We’re both smiling like idiots.
“Jordie?” Her voice is softer now.
“Yeah?”
“What you said about wanting to… you know.”
My heart kicks up. “Yeah?”
“Did you mean it?”
I stop drying and look at her. Really look.
“Every word.”
She swallows. “That’s what I thought.”
“Is that a problem?”
She bites her lip. “I don’t know yet.”
“Fair enough.”
We finish the dishes in silence, but it’s comfortable. Easy. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of days.
When the last plate is put away, she turns to me.
“For the record,” she says, “I think you’re twisted, inappropriate, and way too honest for your own good.”
“I know.”
“But I kind of like it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She leaves before I can respond, heading upstairs to her room.
I stand in the kitchen alone, grinning like an idiot.
She kind of likes it.
She kind of likes me.
It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either.
And for now? That’s enough.
I turn off the lights and head to my room, passing Grant’s door on the way.
There’s music playing—loud, angry.
He’s pissed.
Good. Let him be pissed. Let him sit in his room and pretend he doesn’t want her. Pretend Sunday dinners don’t matter. Pretend he’s above all of this.
Meanwhile, I’m going to keep showing up. Keep making her laugh. Keep being honest about what I want.
Because life’s too short to play games.
And Elise Hart is worth being real for.
Even if it means pissing off my captain in the process.