Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’d spent the entire day in a state of controlled panic. Dinner with Rion—in my apartment—had seemed like such a brilliant idea yesterday. Now, as I frantically wiped down every surface for the third time, I questioned my sanity.
My apartment, while charming in a quirky, bookish way, was definitely not designed with seven-foot-tall minotaurs in mind. The ceilings were low enough that I worried he’d have to duck through doorways, and my kitchen was generous by New York standards but still essentially a glorified hallway.
“It’s fine,” I muttered to myself, straightening the throw pillows on my sofa. “Just dinner. Between friends. Who occasionally fantasize about touching each other’s… horns.”
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman with multiple degrees who could alphabetize an entire section of Medieval Literature without breaking a sweat. Why was I losing my mind over pasta?
The answer, of course, was that this wasn’t about pasta.
It was about the way Rion’s knee had pressed against mine under the library’s break room table.
The intensity in his dark eyes when I’d asked what he saw when he looked at me.
The gentle weight of his hand on my shoulder as we’d said goodnight.
My phone chimed with a text notification.
On my way. 10 minutes.
Short, direct, so very Rion. I smiled despite my nerves and sent back a thumbs-up emoji. I’d learned that he appreciated their efficiency—a sentiment conveyed without wasted words.
I gave my apartment one final inspection. Pasta water ready to boil. Sauce simmering. Wine breathing (did minotaurs drink wine? Too late to ask now). Coffee table cleared of the usual book avalanche. Ceiling height… Well, we’d deal with that when he arrived.
At precisely 7:00 PM, my doorbell rang. Punctuality, another very Rion trait. I smoothed my dress—casual but nicer than my usual library attire—and took a deep breath before opening the door.
The sight of him still took my breath away.
He filled the doorframe completely, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides, his horns gleaming in the hallway light.
He wore dark jeans and a charcoal button-down shirt that strained slightly across his chest, clearly tailored but still fighting a losing battle against his physique.
His usual wide-brimmed hat was absent, his horns proudly visible.
And in his arms, he carried what appeared to be an entire bakery’s worth of bread.
“You came,” I said, immediately wanting to kick myself for stating the obvious.
“I said I would.” His deep voice rumbled pleasantly, sending a familiar warmth through me. He nodded towards his armful of baked goods. “I brought bread.”
“I can see that,” I laughed, stepping back to let him in. “Did you leave any flour in the state?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he ducked—as predicted—to enter my apartment. “I wasn’t sure what type would pair best with pasta. So I made several.”
He set his offerings on my kitchen counter: a golden baguette, a round loaf of what looked like sourdough, some kind of herb-flecked focaccia, and a small package that I suspected contained his famous biscuits.
“This is… wow.” I examined the breads, inhaling their rich, yeasty aroma. “You made all of these today?”
He shrugged, a gesture that on his massive frame looked like mountains shifting. “Baking calms me.”
“Were you nervous?” The question slipped out before I could filter it.
His dark eyes met mine. “Yes.”
One word, but the honesty in it made my heart flutter. “Me too,” I admitted.
We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t quite name. Then the timer on my stove beeped, breaking the spell.
“That’s my cue to actually cook the pasta,” I said, turning towards the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable. Though ‘comfortable’ might be relative given the ceiling height.”
“I’ve adapted to human architecture,” he said, following me into the kitchen. “Your space is… nice. Warm.”
Coming from Rion, this was practically effusive praise. I felt a ridiculous flush of pleasure as I moved to check the sauce.
“Thanks. It’s not exactly an architectural marvel like your place, but it’s home.”
“It suits you,” he observed, looking around at my book-lined walls and mismatched furniture. “Orderly chaos.”
I laughed. “That might be the most accurate description of my life I’ve ever heard.”
My kitchen suddenly felt much smaller with Rion in it. He seemed to take up all the available space and oxygen, his presence both intimidating and thrillingly intimate. I became hyperaware of every movement as I reached for the pasta, conscious of how close he stood.
“Can I help?” he asked, his deep voice close enough that I could feel its vibration.
“You already brought enough bread for a small army,” I said, turning to reach past him for the colander. “You’re officially a guest now. Just relax and—”
As I turned, my elbow caught the edge of the simmering sauce pan, sending it teetering dangerously. In my haste to catch it, I knocked over the glass of wine I’d poured earlier, creating a red waterfall headed straight for my white kitchen rug.
“Oh no, no, no!” I lunged for the sauce while simultaneously trying to intercept the wine, resulting in me doing neither effectively.
Rion moved with surprising speed and precision for someone so large. One massive hand steadied the sauce pan while the other caught the wine glass before it could shatter, though not before a generous splash had escaped.
“Sorry!” I grimaced, grabbing a dish towel to blot the spreading red stain. “This is why I can’t have nice things.”
“No harm done,” he said calmly, setting the wine glass safely on the counter and checking that the sauce pan was stable. “The sauce is saved.”
“The rug isn’t,” I sighed, dabbing ineffectually at the stain. “Though honestly, it was only a matter of time. I’m a walking disaster in confined spaces.”
“Here.” Rion crouched down beside me, taking the towel from my hands. His fingers brushed mine, warm and surprisingly gentle. “Salt,” he said.
“Salt?”
“For the wine. It helps absorb it before it sets.”
He moved to my pantry with the confidence of someone who knew their way around a kitchen, located the salt, and returned to sprinkle a generous amount over the stain. His massive hands worked with delicate precision, blotting rather than rubbing.
“Where did you learn that trick?” I asked, watching him work.
“Trial and error,” he replied, not looking up. “Red wine and baking don’t always mix well.”
I tried to picture Rion in his kitchen, flour-dusted and cursing at a wine spill, and found the image endearingly domestic.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Most of my kitchen disasters end up as permanent reminders of my clumsiness.”
He glanced up, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Not everything needs to leave a scar.”
Something about the way he said it made me think we weren’t just talking about wine stains anymore. I held his gaze, acutely aware of how close we were, both crouched on my kitchen floor.
“The pasta,” he reminded me gently after a moment.
“Right! The pasta.” I scrambled to my feet, feeling flustered. “Can’t have a pasta dinner without the actual pasta.”
Rion rose beside me, his movement fluid despite his size. In the small kitchen, we were practically pressed together, his warmth radiating against my side. I tried to focus on dumping the pasta into the boiling water, but my hands trembled slightly.
“I’ll finish this,” he said, nodding towards the wine stain. “You cook.”
“No, you’re the guest, you shouldn’t—”
“Clara.” Just my name, but the way he said it—low, rumbling, almost tender—stopped my protest in its tracks. “Let me help.”
I nodded, oddly touched by his insistence. We worked in tandem, me stirring the pasta and checking the sauce, him tending to the wine stain with methodical care. Despite the small space, we developed a rhythm, moving around each other with an awareness that felt almost like a dance.
When he reached for a clean towel, his arm brushed against my back, a brief contact that sent a shiver down my spine.
I turned to hand him the salt again and found him closer than I expected, my face nearly colliding with his broad chest. His scent enveloped me—warm and earthy, with hints of yeast and spice from his baking.
“Sorry,” I murmured, looking up at him. From this close, I could see flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the subtle variations in the short fur covering his face, the perfect curve of his horns.
“Don’t apologize,” he said quietly. “I don’t mind.”
Don’t mind what? I wanted to ask. The clumsiness? The closeness? Me?
Instead, I just nodded and returned to the pasta, hyperaware of his every movement behind me. The kitchen felt charged with an energy that had nothing to do with the electricity powering my appliances.
By some miracle, dinner came together without further incident.
I drained the pasta while Rion sliced his beautiful bread, our arms occasionally brushing in the cramped space.
Each contact sent little jolts of electricity through me, and I found myself deliberately reaching for things I didn’t need, just for the chance of another touch.
When we finally sat down at my small dining table, I felt as if I’d run a marathon, my pulse elevated, my skin hyper-sensitive.
“This looks good,” Rion said, surveying the simple meal of pasta with tomato and basil sauce, accompanied by his artisan bread and a fresh salad.
“Nothing compared to your bread,” I replied, watching as he arranged his large frame carefully on my dining chair, which suddenly looked absurdly small. “I hope it doesn’t collapse under you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The chair or my expectations?”
I laughed, surprised by the hint of humor. “The chair. Though now I’m worried about both.”