Chapter 12
LAINE
Iwant to lick that little dab of sauce off his lip. It's taunting me. Begging for me to do it.
He makes a low hum and locks eyes with me. I swear the heat between us is almost visible. Then his eyes go wide, and he's suddenly all excited puppy energy again.
"Holy shit. What's in that?"
I clear my throat. Right. The sauce. "Secret ingredient."
"Come on." He's practically bouncing. "You can't say 'secret ingredient' and then not tell me. That's cruel and unusual punishment."
"Dark chocolate. Just a tiny bit."
"You're kidding." His face lights up like I've just revealed the secrets of the universe. "Chocolate? In pasta sauce?"
"I learned it from one of the Abuelas in Mexico. She said everything good needs a little surprise."
Reid grins, wide and delighted, and my stomach does this stupid fluttery thing. "Smart woman. I'm going to think about this for the rest of my life. Chocolate in pasta sauce. Game changer."
We're standing way closer than we need to be.
Neither of us backs up. His hip is almost touching mine, and I can feel the warmth radiating off him.
He's so relaxed in his own place, and I'm shocked how much I like this side of him.
Most guys work so hard to impress on dates — showing off what they know, taking charge, proving how competent they are.
But Reid's just... present. Actually here.
Helping me stir things and asking questions and bumping my hip with his like we've been doing this for years.
Well, maybe performing a little. But it's charming rather than annoying.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Sure."
"When I said I wanted to cook instead of going out... were you disappointed?"
He screws up his face, and taps his chin, making me laugh. Then he drops the bit and smiles.
"Honestly? For like thirty seconds. I had this whole plan."
"What kind of plan?"
"Fancy French restaurant. Good wine. My shirt that doesn't have holes in it." He laughs at himself, rubbing the back of his neck. "I even watched YouTube videos about wine so I wouldn't sound like an idiot. I wanted to show you I was serious."
"You watched YouTube videos about wine?"
"Two of them. I can now tell you the difference between a Merlot and a Cabernet." He pauses. "Okay, no I can't. I retained nothing. But I tried, I swear."
I'm laughing, and he's grinning at me like making me laugh is the best thing that's happened to him all day.
He watched YouTube videos about wine. For me. This man studied wine like it was a final exam because he wanted to impress me at dinner.
That's either the sweetest thing I've ever heard or I need to seriously recalibrate my standards.
"And now?" I ask.
"Now I think I had it backward. This is better. You, here, in my kitchen, teaching me things I'll probably forget by tomorrow." His voice softens. "This is real."
God, I like this guy. A lot.
The pasta timer goes off, and Reid looks at the pot like it might bite him. "Uh... how do I know when it's done?"
"Taste it." I hand him a fork. "It should be al dente — firm but not crunchy."
He fishes out a piece of penne, juggling it between his fingers because it's hot, blowing on it frantically.
"Ow. Ow. Okay." He pops it in his mouth, and his face scrunches up in concentration like he's taking an exam.
"I think it's ready? Maybe? It's not crunchy.
But is it firm enough? What's the firmness threshold here? "
I laugh and taste it myself. "Perfect. Now drain it — but save about half a cup of the pasta water first."
"Why?"
"In case the sauce needs thinning."
"See, this is why I need you. I would have just dumped it all down the drain and then wondered why my sauce was too thick." He's already reaching for the pot, then stops. "Wait. Which one's the colander?"
"The one with the holes."
"Right. I knew that."
Reid follows my instructions, moving carefully like he's handling explosives. When he successfully drains the pasta without burning himself or dumping it all in the sink, he grins at me like he's just performed surgery.
"I did it. Did you see that? Flawless execution."
"You drained pasta."
"Flawlessly." He sets the colander down with a flourish. "I'm basically a chef now."
"This is fun." I toss everything together, hiding my smile. "You take orders well."
He grins, leaning against the counter to watch me work. "I've had a lot of practice. But I can tell you for sure, you're the prettiest drill sergeant I've ever had."
I could get used to this. "Careful, all these compliments might go to my head."
"Not compliments, Laine. Facts."
The look in his eyes says he means every word of it. And somehow that's harder to handle than a line. A line I can deflect. Sincerity just sits there, warm and heavy, daring me to accept it.
Cheeks hot, I focus on the stove. The sauce is perfect — rich and complex, with that hint of chocolate adding depth without being obvious. Reid makes another appreciative sound as I finish combining everything.
"This smells incredible," he says.
It really does. I never really thought about the fact that when I actually had my own place, I'd be alone there.
No one to eat with. No communal kitchen full of other nurses arguing about whose turn it was to buy coffee.
Just me, cooking for one in my quiet apartment, eating on my couch with a book propped against my knees.
Turns out living alone has some downsides.
"Do you want to call Blake in?"
Reid's face lights up. "Are you sure? If you don't want—"
"Reid." I bump his shoulder with mine. "I'd like to get to know your best friend. Besides, I made more than enough for the three of us."
"Okay, but fair warning — he's probably covered in sawdust again. The man is basically fifty percent wood shavings at this point."
"I'll survive."
Reid smiles again, softer this time. "I'll go get him. Make yourself at home."
He practically bounces out the back door, and I find myself smiling at his retreating back. This man and his enthusiasm. It's impossible not to get swept up in it.
A few minutes later he's back, followed by Blake. And this time, without the nerves from a few hours before, I let myself take him in.
Tall. Broad shoulders that fill the doorway in a way that makes the kitchen feel smaller.
Dark hair sticking up everywhere, sawdust caught in it like he's been rolling around on the workshop floor.
There's a dark smudge of wood stain on his cheek and his t-shirt has seen better days.
He's got that slightly unfocused look of someone who's been concentrating on something for hours and hasn't fully returned to the real world yet.
He's also objectively hot. The kind of hot that catches you off guard — where Reid has this classic high school quarterback thing going, Blake is darker.
Broodier. The guy who hung out in the smoke pit between welding and automotive classes.
Someone comfortable working with his hands, comfortable in silence, with that edge of I don't care what you think of me that probably drove every girl in a fifty-mile radius absolutely insane.
The old me would have gone nuts for it. But not this version of me. The new Laine likes kindness and stability, and charming hazel eyes.
But I'm woman enough to admit that Blake is nice on the eyes.
He heads straight to the sink to scrub his hands, giving me a tiny smile as he passes. When he turns around, his eyes widen at the spread on the table.
"Fuck. This looks like something out of a magazine."
There go my cheeks again. I am apparently compliment starved. "It's just pasta."
"Just pasta," Blake repeats, shaking his head. "I've eaten plenty of 'just pasta'. This ain't it."
Reid's practically vibrating with pride, like he had anything to do with this beyond draining the noodles. "Wait until you taste it. There's chocolate in the sauce."
Blake's eyebrows shoot up. "Chocolate?"
"I know, right? Game changer. My whole worldview has shifted."
There's a bunch of shuffling, then we're all sitting, and Reid reaches for my plate, serving me first. Then the men pile —literally pile—their plates full. I give myself a moment to bow my head and give private thanks, then we dive in.
"This is incredible," Blake mutters.
Reid nods enthusiastically, already going for another forkful. "I told you she knew what she was doing. I helped, by the way. I drained the pasta."
"Heroic," Blake says dryly.
"It was. I didn't burn myself or anything."
Watching them eat is better than any compliment I've ever received.
They're practically inhaling the food, but they're not animals about it.
Reid passes Blake the parmesan without being asked.
Blake refills my water glass when it gets low.
Good manners layered over genuine hunger — the kind that makes you wonder when they last had a meal someone actually thought about.
"When's the last time you two had a real home-cooked meal?" I ask.
Reid and Blake exchange a look.
"We cook," Blake says.
"Okay. Something other than chili, shepherd's pie, or tacos."
Blake shoots Reid a hilariously betrayed look. "You told her about our rotation?"
"It came up organically!"
"Too long," Blake admits gruffly.
"I eat at the station a lot. The fire guys can really cook. They don't seem to put me in the rotation much."
Going by how 'helpful' he is in the kitchen, I can see why.
"Because you're a fucking danger to everyone in the kitchen."
Reid glares at him. "I set one fire asshole. One. And it's a firehouse. We have like... a bazillion fire extinguishers. It wasn't a big deal."
I drop my chin into my palm and let the laughter come. There's no way I can stop it. Blake meets my eyes, and for a second, he grins and it's like the sun just came out. Full, unguarded, transforming his whole face. I have a feeling he doesn't do that much, despite how funny they are together.
"So how did you two end up roommates?" I ask. "Reid mentioned you grew up together, and both served."