Chapter 23 Elena
ELENA
I’m not surprised to see Weston’s truck in my driveway when I get home from work on Friday. I am surprised when I open the front door and am greeted by the smells of garlic, tomatoes, and something rich enough to make my stomach clench.
“Weston?”
He was at the school for lunch duty today, as usual. At some point, I mentioned T.J. was going to sleep over at his friend’s house tonight. Later in the conversation, when Weston asked for my house keys, I assumed he and Buck or Calder were going to do something with the security equipment.
It smells like I was wrong.
Weston calls back to me, and I find him in my kitchen, a wooden spoon in one hand and a dish towel draped over his shoulder like this is the most natural thing in the world.
I’m vaguely aware of a big pot bubbling behind him on the stove, but my attention snags on the pale blue t-shirt that fits his upper body like it was specially made to highlight his muscles.
In jeans and socked feet, he looks the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him, and something low and hungry wakes in me that has nothing to do with dinner.
“I wasn’t expecting you so early,” he says with a crooked little smile.
Despite that, the dining table is fully set for two, complete with white tapered candles, folded napkins, and a bottle of wine.
“I wasn’t expecting any of this. What’s going on?”
He sets the spoon down and starts toward me. “I’m trying not to ruin dinner. I can cook about three things without embarrassing myself, and this is the best one.”
“What is it?” I smile up at him as he gently takes hold of my shoulders with his big hands.
“My grandma’s spaghetti recipe.”
He bends to greet me with a sweet press of his lips to mine, and my throat tightens. “I’m honored,” I say when he straightens.
He lifts a brow playfully. “Was it that good a kiss?”
I wrap a hand around his arm in answer to his teasing, but really, I’m looking for an excuse to touch him again. “Honored by you cooking a family recipe for me,” I clarify.
“It’s one of my best secret weapons.” He gives me a dark, flirty look before he returns to the stove, leaving me wondering what other secret weapons he has, and whether or not we can skip dinner and head straight into the bedroom.
I follow him and peek around him to see the stove, where, in addition to the red sauce, there’s a big pot filled with water where tiny bubbles are just starting to rise, and a pan with browned sausages. The oven’s on, too, radiating a buttery garlic smell.
“I had no idea this was why you asked for my keys. How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to look through your bathroom cabinets and your lingerie drawer,” he says. “Love that racy hot pink thong.”
Laughter bubbles up from deep inside me, especially since there’s nothing hot pink in my underwear drawer.
“You should go put it on.” His eyes scan my body, from my navy skirt up to my maroon blazer. “Or sweats. Whatever’s comfortable.”
He adjusts a burner knob and reaches for the spoon again, and I turn and head into my bedroom, where I’m relieved not to find a new hot pink thong in my dresser drawer.
Even though this feels like a surprise date, Weston’s dressed casually, and he did suggest sweats, so I choose comfort and put on my most flattering pair of joggers and a pastel pink V-neck t-shirt. I consider taking my braid out, but I end up leaving it in so I can rejoin him sooner.
When I return to the kitchen, noodles are boiling, and Weston’s wrapping a crusty loaf of garlic bread in a napkin.
“What can I do?” I ask.
He turns toward me, ignores my question, and scans my body again, more slowly this time, his eyes leaving a trail of heat from my mouth, to my chest, and down to my hips. He sets the food down on the counter and comes straight over, wrapping an arm around my waist, tugging me close, and kissing me.
“You should start casual Fridays at the school.” He kisses me again, then pulls back, looking thoughtful. “Though I guess your curves would be too distracting.”
“Too distracting for who?” I laugh.
“Me. I’d be tempted to drag you into the janitor’s closet at lunchtime.” He tugs gently at the bottom of my braid. “Heck, I’ve already been tempted. How many detentions would that get me?”
He cuts into my laughter with another kiss, deeper this time.
His hands roam my body, caressing and squeezing, showing me how much he likes my curves, and kindling heat low in my belly.
I conduct my own explorations, excited to be so close to his body with no heavy coats in the way and no cameras or students around to see us.
He’s warm and hard and big enough to make me feel small when I’m wrapped in his arms. His chest is solid, his shoulders are impossibly broad, and he smells clean and citrusy—and like garlic.
My mouth is watering for him more than the food, and when I dig the pads of my fingers into his lower back, he makes a rough sound under his breath.
Then, the timer on the stove goes off.
He squeezes my hip and tastes my lips one more time before pulling away to silence it. “Dinner first,” he murmurs.
I’m left standing in the middle of the floor, nearly breathless and a little dizzy. “You’re very disciplined.”
“Not as disciplined as you’d think,” he says over his shoulder, as I admire the shape of his backside and think of all the dedication and hard work it must take to maintain a body like his.
Becoming a SEAL takes a kind of self-control most people can’t come close to.
I know enough about what they go through to understand how few men ever make it.
Weston is being modest, and it turns out he’s modest about his cooking, too. Dinner is delicious, and the pasta sauce has a depth of flavor that tastes like he spent all day making it.
Outside, dark has descended over the mountain, and a cold wind is picking up, gusting against the windows. Inside, the candles flicker between us, and my house feels warmer than it has in months.
I twirl perfectly-cooked spaghetti around my fork and look at Weston over the rim of my wineglass. “This is very unfair.”
His brows lift. “How?”
“You’re waiting at my house all handsome and competent, cooking for me in candlelight? You’re stacking the deck.”
He grins, looking devilish. “That’s a problem?”
“It is when I’ve been trying to maintain at least the illusion of good judgment.”