Then Natalie clears her throat, the sound sharp enough to shatter the spell. She steps back, creating distance that feels like a physical loss. "Okay," she says, her voice slightly unsteady despite her attempt at lightness. "Let's try again. Properly this time."
Jake nods, but the word 'properly' almost makes him laugh. There's nothing proper about the way he's looking at her, nothing appropriate about how his hands itch to pull her back against him. His mind has abandoned all pretence of caring about the recipe—it's consumed entirely by her. By the way she responded to his touch, the way her body betrayed what her words won't say.
No matter how many times he tells himself she doesn't want this, he can't shake what he saw in her eyes. That hunger. That mirror of his own desperate want.
He turns toward the counter, grabbing an open bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Want a drink?” he asks, keeping his tone light. “Cooking and drinking go together, no?”
Natalie eyes the bottle, then him, and after a brief hesitation, she nods. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
Jake pours the wine and hands her a glass, their fingers brushing asshe takes it. He watches as she lifts it to her lips, taking a slow sip, her gaze lingering on him over the rim of the glass.
“Trying to get me tipsy so I won’t notice when you butcher the dough?” she teases.
He smirks, raising his own glass. “If it helps my chances, then sure.”
Natalie laughs and clinks her glass with his. Jake catches her eye and smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he listens to her laugh, warm and unrestrained, wrapping around him like a favorite song he never wants to end. Jake wonders if the real reason he offered her a drink wasn’t only nerves. Maybe he wants to slow things down and keep her here longer.
“So where did you learn all this,” Jake asks, gesturing to the dough.
Natalie stills for a moment, then exhales. “My mom. She taught me when I was a kid.”
Jake catches the slight shift in her tone. “She must have been a great cook.”
“She was,” Natalie says, offering a small smile. “She used to make pasta from scratch every Sunday. It was a whole process. We’d spend the entire afternoon in the kitchen together, flour everywhere, music playing. She had this patience with me, even when I messed everything up.” Her voice softens. “She and my dad died five years ago.”
Jake watches her, something tightening in his chest. He searches for something to say, but nothing comes. He wants to reach for her, to offer more than words, but he holds back. “I’m sorry, Natalie.”
She nods, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass. “Cooking like this… it keeps her close, you know?”
“You must miss them a lot.”
“I do… but I have Jesse. And Mila, who you will unfortunately meet tomorrow. I’m happy.”
“Jesse is a good kid,” Jake offers. “He’s got a bit of growing up to do, but he’s got a good heart. You can tell he was raised right.”
Natalie hesitates, then adds softly, “Raising Jesse after they died… that was hard.” She exhales, rubbing her hands together. “He was only thirteen. He tried to be tough, but I knew how lost he felt. He was angry at the world, at me, at them for leaving us. There were nights I could hear him crying in his room, but when I knocked, he’d go silent. And I had no idea how to help him.”
She swallows hard.
“I was twenty, barely keeping it together myself. I didn’t know how to be his parent—I wasn’t supposed to be. But I had to be. I had to make sure he did his homework, ate real meals, got to practice, stayed out of trouble. And he resented me for it. I was his sister, not his mom. He hated that I had to make the rules.”
Jake listens, his chest tightening at the weight in her voice. He doesn’t interrupt. He just lets her speak.
“I know he appreciates it now,” she continues, her gaze distant. “We’re good now. But back then… God, it was brutal.”
Their eyes meet, and there’s something raw in Natalie’s expression, something vulnerable that Jake has never seen before. He wants to say something, to tell her how strong she is, how much she’s done for her brother, but the words feel inadequate.
So instead, he nods. “You did right by him, Natalie.”
A small, sad smile crosses her lips. “I hope so.”
Their eyes linger, and for a moment, the world outside of this kitchen, outside of this quiet understanding, fades away.
CHAPTER 17
Mila
