My excitement bubbles over before I can contain it, and I practically bounce as I walk toward the bag. "So what's inside?"
Niko begins unpacking items one by one. Fresh herbs, tomatoes, olive oil, ground beef, pasta, and other ingredients I can't immediately identify.
I lean closer, studying the labels, and my breath catches.
I pick up one of the packages. "Wait, this is in Greek. Did you?—?"
"Of course," he interrupts smoothly, gently taking it from my hands. "I want it to be really authentic for you."
"Did you have this shipped in?"
He shrugs like it's nothing. "Overnight from Athens."
My body tingles at his words. The casual way he says it, like going to extraordinary lengths for me is the most natural thing in the world.
"Okay, Niko. I see you," I say, looking over everything spread out on the counter. "And what exactly are you making?"
"Pastitsio. Your favorite," he says as he reaches into the bag and pulls out a bottle of wine. "And I got this to go with it. Same one you liked in Dublin."
I stare at him, genuinely speechless and overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness. By the care he's taken to remember what I liked.
My hand flies to my chest. "Niko. This is like the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."
The words slip out before I can stop them, too honest and too revealing. But they're true. Family and friends shower me with expensive gifts, but they're always things they think I should want. Niko's making me something I actually told him I loved.
Before I can analyze any of this and risk my emotions from spilling over, I grab the wine from him. "I'll open this," I say quickly.
He nods, taking his jacket off and turning toward the stove. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and for some reason even his forearms look strong.Sexy.I mean, is that a thing?It is for me now.
It takes me four attempts, but I locate a corkscrew in a drawer. The cork comes out with a satisfying pop, and I pour two glasses of the deep red wine. Handing one to Niko, our fingers brush, and I try not to notice the spark that jumps between us.
"Cheers," I say, and we clink glasses.
"Damn, this wine is good," I say as I take my heels off and take a seat on one of the barstools across from the chef to watch him work.
There's something mesmerizing about the way he moves. He starts with the tomatoes, his knife moving slowly like he's worshiping each move.
"You know," I say, taking a sip of wine and smiling, "your knife skills are pretty ehhh," I tease him.
He looks up, one eyebrow raised, amusement dancing in those dark eyes. "That's fighting words, orea mou."
"Just calling it like I see it." I grin, enjoying the way his jaw ticks when I challenge him a bit.
"Says the woman who probably burns pasta water."
I gasp in mock offense. "I do not burn pasta water. That's physically impossible."
"With you, I wouldn't put anything past the realm of possibility."
"Rude." But I'm laughing now, my teasing loosening the knots of tension in my shoulders.
He continues chopping, but his movements have sped up a bit as if my words made him want to show off a bit more.
"Come here," he says suddenly, setting down his knife. "Let me show you how it's done."
I hesitate for a moment but then slide off the stool and move beside him, acutely aware of his proximity. He hands me the knife, then positions himself behind me, his chest brushing against my back as he rests his hand on top of mine.
"I just want to point out that I have all ten fingers, and I'd like that to still be the case after this demonstration," I say, smiling.
