I shot him a look. “You’re lucky I don’t have a rolling pin.”
“Lucky’s one word for it.”
He was infuriating.
And handsome. And probably the reason the sauce was starting to bubble over while I stood there pretending to hate him.
“Can you grab the pasta?” I asked, turning down the heat.
“Sure thing, boss.”
He reached for the strainer just as a rogue bubble from the sauce popped in the pan, sending a perfect glob of tomato straight across my sleeve.
I froze. “Did you just—”
“It jumped!” he said quickly, but he was laughing. “That was a self-defense splatter.”
I looked at my arm, then at him. “You just murdered Santa.”
“I’m sure he’ll recover,” he said, grabbing a towel and stepping closer. “Here, let me—”
“Don’t…”
Too late. He wiped the spot with the towel, and his hand brushed the inside of my wrist, warm and rough and entirely too gentle.
For a second, neither of us breathed.
“There,” he said, voice low, his thumb grazing the edge of my skin. “Clean.”
“Thanks,” I said, my voice coming out too soft.
He smiled. “Anytime.”
I turned back to the stove, pretending to be fascinated by the simmering sauce. “You’re distracting.”
“That’s my charm.”
“It’s your downfall,” I muttered.
“Only if I let it be.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Still sounds like a compliment.”
I grabbed the wooden spoon like it might double as a weapon. “You’re lucky this apartment doesn’t have a back door.”
“Pretty sure you’ll still find a way to throw me out,” he said, laughter in his tone.
“Don’t tempt me.”
We fell into a rhythm after that—him stirring, me draining the pasta, both of us pretending the air between us wasn’t charged enough to power the town’s Christmas lights. Every brush of his arm, every laugh, every shared glance felt heavier than it should’ve.
“So,” he said after a few minutes, “should we go allLady and the?”
“No,” I said, twirling noodles onto plates.
“Could be romantic.”
