34. Calvin
CALVIN
The second I step into my apartment, the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and cheese hits my nose, and my stomach growls.
I love cooking. I always have. My grandmother used to spend hours in the kitchen with my sisters and me when we were little.
And it continued as we grew until we were able to put meals on the table.
It’s always been a form of escape for me.
I love putting some music on, opening a recipe book and losing myself as I create something hopefully tasty.
I’ve had my fair share of fuck-ups over the years, but today, I’m confident. I’ve perfected my lasagna recipe, and I have every hope that Sienna will appreciate my efforts. Not to mention that it’s loaded with veggies and extra protein to ensure we both hit our targets for the day.
I gather everything up that I prepared earlier and quickly realize that unless I can find some kind of trolley, I’m going to have to take multiple trips.
Fifteen minutes pass in a flash as I go up and down the elevator, taking everything to Sienna’s apartment. It would have been so much easier to prepare everything there, but I prefer using my own equipment and top of the line range oven I had installed before moving in.
I’m sweating by the time I get the lasagna into Sienna’s preheated oven. With time quickly running out, I set about getting our sides ready and setting the table.
While cooking might be familiar, the rest of what I’m doing really isn’t. As I stand back and look at her small dining table with a huge bouquet of flowers in the middle, flickering candles, a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses, I can’t help but wonder who the fuck I am.
Killer doesn’t cook for women or set up romantic dates.
And that’s the man I’ve been since I moved to LA.
It’s all anyone has known. It’s all I’ve allowed them to know.
But everything is different now. Since the moment Sienna stepped back into my life, I’ve remembered that there’s another version hiding in the shadows.
I’d almost forgotten that boy—the one who rode horses with the girl who couldn’t stop smiling, whose laughter lit him up inside.
The boy who spent hours lying in fields pretending to watch the sunset while he watched the prettiest girl he’d ever seen instead.
The boy who could see his future playing out before his eyes.
Sure, hockey was there, but that wasn’t all there was.
There was a family. There was love. There was purpose.
He’s the man standing here now, freaking the fuck out. What if she hates it? What if she doesn’t like lasagna? No, that’s not possible. Everyone likes lasagna, right?
“Fuck,” I hiss, shaking my hands out at my sides.
It’s going to be okay.
You’ve got this.
I glance at the clock.
She’s got ten minutes left of the time I gave her. The lasagna won’t be ready because of how long it took me to get everything down here and—
It’ll be fine.
Calm the fuck down.
With nervous energy coursing through me, I begin pacing, my eyes flicking to the clock every few seconds. I’m not sure whether I want time to speed up or slow down.
What I do know, though, is that if she doesn’t get out here soon and put me out of my misery, I may vomit.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I chant as I turn my back in the hallway again.
I only make it three steps before her voice hits my ear.
“What’s all this?”
My heart lurches into my throat, stopping me from responding. Hell, it stops me from fucking breathing.
I spin around, desperate to see her reaction. And the second my eyes land on her face and take in her wide smile, everything settles.
“This,” I say, sounding much stronger than I was feeling a few moments ago, “is dinner. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I-I—” she stutters before swallowing thickly as she looks around my frame to see exactly what I’ve done.
My nerves return, and I bite the inside of my cheek as I wait to hear her thoughts.
“You did all this for me?”
I shrug. “It was nothing, really. I’d have made dinner for myself anyway, so—”
“You cooked?”
“Uh…yeah. I cooked.”
She moves from her spot and walks toward the table before reaching a hand out and delicately touching the petals with the tip of her finger.
My breath catches in my throat, because when my eyes drop, I realize that she understood the reason I left one of my hoodies on her bed not so long ago.
She’s wearing my goddamn name and number. My eyes drop to her bare, curvy legs, and I can’t help but wonder what, if anything, is beneath it.
As discreetly as I can, I adjust myself in a way I hope it’s not obvious that my boner is trying to burst out of my pants.
“Marigolds,” she murmurs, making my heart thump against my ribs.
“They remind me of you,” I tell her honestly.
Her breath catches, and I wonder if she’s remembering the same thing I am. Mom had them all over the ranch.
“Little burst of sunshine,” I say, wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing my lips to the top of her head.
When she twists around in my arms and looks up at me, tears are clinging to her lashes. The sight of them scares the shit out of me, but then I notice her smile.
“Thank you,” she breathes. “No one has ever done anything like this for me before.”
“You like it?”
“Are you kidding? It’s incredible. And dinner smells amazing. I can’t believe Calvin Keller cooked me dinner and bought me flowers. What universe is this?”
I chuckle. “Just don’t tell anyone. It’ll seriously ruin my rep.”
“Deal,” she says, stretching up on her toes to brush her lips against mine.
It starts slow and gentle, but by the time my cell starts buzzing, letting me know that the lasagna is ready, I’m more than ready to eat her instead.
“Dinner,” I murmur into her mouth before forcing us apart.
She gazes up at me with wide, hungry eyes and swollen lips. She’s never looked better.
“You like lasagna, right?”
“Of course. Who the hell doesn’t like lasagna?”
“Right? That’s what I thought. But then I started worrying and—” I cut myself off with a shake of my head. “Go and sit down.”
“I feel like I should go and dress up. You’ve done all this so—”
“Don’t. I left that for you for a reason.”
She smirks, gazing at me from beneath her lashes as she bites her bottom lip.
“You like seeing me with your name and number, huh?” she taunts, spinning around on the spot to show me her back.
“Darlin’,” I say, dragging my fingers through my hair. “You have no fucking idea.”
This time when I reach to adjust myself, she doesn’t miss it.
Her eyes drop to my crotch, and then jump up to my eyes. I panic for a moment, but then the most incredible smile pulls at her lips. She looked beautiful before, but the way that smile lights up every inch of her face and makes her eyes twinkle…well, I’m fucking gone.
“You having a little problem there?”
“There’s nothing little about this problem,” I taunt.
I expect her to roll her eyes or tease me for being cocky, but none of that happens. Instead, her eyes turn a shade of gray that’s so dark it’s almost black as her mouth opens in a perfect O.
The need to put the idea of dinner aside in favor of throwing her over my shoulder and taking her to bed is almost too much to ignore. But knowing that I promised her slow and at her pace, I force some blood to my head and remember what the fuck I’m meant to be doing.
“Go and sit down, darlin’.”
She lifts one foot, and for a moment, I think she’s going to move closer and take the decision out of my hands. But then she retreats toward the table.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” she asks, picking up the bottle and pouring herself one.
“A small one,” I say before heading to the kitchen to rescue the lasagna before I ruin all my hard work.
As I dish it up, Sienna’s burning stare ensures my skin continues to burn and desire rushes through my veins.
Maybe leaving that hoodie was a bad idea. How the fuck am I meant to focus when she’s— “Ow, fuck.”
“Are you okay?” she asks in a rush.
Before I have a chance to respond, she’s at my side, her small hand on my forearm as I stare at the finger I burned on the lasagna dish.
“Here,” she says, reaching for the faucet and shoving my finger under the cold, running water.
“I’m okay. It’s just a small burn,” I explain as her hand slides down my back. A shudder rips through me, and there’s no way she misses it.
“Better to be safe than sorry,” she murmurs, glancing up at me.
“I really did miss you, you know.”
Her smile widens, and she ducks her head.
“Hey, don’t hide from me.”
“I’ve never met anyone who makes me blush like you do.”
“I love it,” I tell her, reaching out with my other hand and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear so I can see her.
“And I missed you, too,” she admits.
Our eyes hold, the air crackling between us.
“My finger is numb,” I blurt, making her laugh. “And I’m hungry.”
She takes pity on me and releases my hand so I can finish dishing up dinner. After refusing to retake her seat, she helps me carry everything to the table, and we both sit down.
“I don’t think I thought this through properly,” I confess when I look up and see nothing but marigolds.
Behind them, Sienna chuckles before she gets up and moves the bouquet to the credenza beside us.
“Hey,” she says once she’s back in her seat.
“Hi,” I reply, feeling like a teenager with a crush again.
I hold my breath as she picks up her fork and cuts into my lasagna.
She glances up before parting her lips and taking her first bite.
Oh God. Please, please like it.
My eyes are glued to her lips as she slides her fork out and then chews.
“Oh my god,” she mumbles. “So good.”
I light up like a fucking Christmas tree.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s delicious,” she says before taking a sip of wine.
My smile is so wide, I struggle to eat my own dinner.
“You don’t have any holiday decorations up,” I blurt.
“I love the holidays, but since living alone, I haven’t really bothered. Mom and Dad’s place is already fully decorated, and I always celebrate there, so …”
“You deserve some pretty decorations. We should go shopping.”
Who the fuck are you, Calvin Keller?
Sienna frowns as if she can’t believe I just said the words either.
“Should we?”
“Yeah. That corner over there is just begging for a tree, don’t you think?”
She turns to look at the corner I’m pointing at.
“Uh, yeah. I guess. I was going to get a plant of some sort. One of those ones with the huge leaves.”
“That’ll look cute the rest of the year. But right now, it needs a Christmas tree.”
“Fair enough,” she says, turning back to her dinner. “This really is incredible. I think you’re going to need to cook for me more often.”
“I’m sure we can make that happen. I usually batch cook for myself once a week. Maybe I can do some for you, too.”
“I do that, too.”
“Batch cook?”
“Yeah, it helps ensure I’m eating well even when I work late. It’s too easy to order in otherwise.”
“Yeah,” I agree, my mind drifting to images of us standing side by side in a kitchen, batch-cooking up a storm together while her Christmas tree twinkles in the corner.
I can’t think of anything more perfect.