“Ugh, why is the sunlouderthis late in the day?” he muttered, shielding his eyes like he just stumbled out of a bunker.
I shook my head, letting out a huff of amusement.
“So,” he said, squinting at me as we made our way toward the parking lot, “what sounds good for dinner?”
I glanced over. “Something home-cooked.”
He scoffed. “Damn, I know you want me barefoot and pregnant, but despite my obvious homemaker vibes, I don’t like to cook.”
I rolled my eyes. “You expect me to believe that when you run a cafe?”
He shook his head. “I’m serious. Chris is the one who comes up with our food menu. I’m your run-of-the-mill barista. I just follow the recipe.”
“Well, lucky for you then, I’d alwaysplannedto be the one to cook.”
He perked up instantly.
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit.Really?” He chirped in an overly exaggerated Southern drawl.
I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips.
“Yeah. Let’s go home.”
He looked at me for a moment, those green eyes of his bouncing over my features but his smile never faded. Until it bloomed into a full-on grin—a real smile.
“Yeah. Home.” Then turned and jogged off to his truck.
Later, when we were both back at the house, I stood over the stove while Colton hovered nearby. He leaned against the counter, watching me as I prepped the sauce for our pasta.
“Okay but, like, real talk? If you keep cooking for me like this, I’m going to bedevastatedwhen you move out.”
I gave him a pointed side-eye. “Devastated?”
“Like the sad Spotify playlists and dramatic sighs kind of devastated.”
I rolled my eyes and headed to the fridge for the block of cheese I needed. “Well, I don’t mind cooking when you get off work early. But try not to die of a broken heart when I’m gone.”
Colton snorted. “Too late. My ghost’s gonna haunt this place till someone else moves in who can make me food like you.”
“Get therapy.” I quipped, chuckling.
He grinned, but it quickly dropped the second the sharp scent of the cheese hit the air. Colton leaned in and grimaced. “Dude… is that cheese even edible? It stinks.”
I glanced up from the grater, clearly amused. “It’s Pecorino Romano. It’ssupposedto smell like that.”
Colton squinted like the cheese had insulted him. “You sure? It smells like used gym socks and regret.”
“It’s a hard, salty cheese. Not the kind you eat plain. I’m going to mix itwith butter and pepper to put over the pasta. It melts down beautifully and makes magic.”
Colton paused, blinking slowly. “Ah. Not snacking cheese.”
“Definitely not.”
A beat.
“That makes… so much sense now,” Colton muttered under his breath.
I raised an eyebrow. “What does?”
