Page 26

— Vin Marchetti.

Oh, that must be West’s investor. I’m admiring the silkiness of the lingerie when the office door opens behind me. West’s voice echoes down the hallway.

“Was that the door? Is everything okay?”

I turn, holding up the teddy like a trophy.

“Vin Marchetti sends his regards,” I tell him. “And possibly an invitation to start an OnlyFans.”

His brow arches, his gaze skimming the scrap of red silk, but he says nothing.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Don’t panic. I don’t wear red.”

“You wore a lot of it in Vegas,” he says. “Mostly paint.”

I wrinkle my nose at him. But when I catch his eyes I see something dark there. A second later, it’s gone.

My breath still catches though.

And then he tips his head to the side. “Is something burning?”

My skin, mostly. But then I remember the sofrito.Shit. I leave the box in the hall and run barefoot to the kitchen, letting out a groan as I see the blackened onions, carrots, and celery.

“Oh.” I pout, because I can’t even make pasta without getting it wrong.

I feel the warmth of him behind me before I hear his voice in my ear.

“Are you cooking?” he asks, sounding almost appalled as he stares over my shoulder.

“Yes,” I say, coughing as I open the window to air out the smoke. “I thought I’d make us some dinner. Thought you’d appreciate a Stepford Wife.”

There’s a pause.

“I ate on the flight,” he tells me.

Of course he did.

I glance at the beginnings of my sauce, which is now somewhere between charred and cremated, and fight the wave of heat flushing up my neck.

I’m embarrassed. This is why I don’t bother. Why I prefer animals to people.

He hasn’t asked how I’m settling in. Hasn’t mentioned the dress. Or the fact that I’m in his kitchen making him dinner and trying to be nice.

I haven’t asked for much. Just a flicker of recognition or a smile. Something to make this feel less like a mistake.

But I guessthisWest Abbott doesn’t deal in flickers. “Probably a good thing,” I say lightly, turning to look at him. “And don’t cry to me when you’ve missed your only chance to taste my spaghetti.”

He holds my gaze, blinking like he’s trying to work me out. Then his phone starts to ring again.

He glances at the blackened pan. “Remind me to update the prenup to include fire insurance.” Then he pulls his phone out of his pocket, letting out the softest of sighs when he reads the screen. “Excuse me,” he murmurs.

And then he’s gone, leaving the silence behind him like a slammed door.

nine

WEST

When I walk into the kitchen at six the next morning it looks like a bomb has gone off. A five-foot-five, beautiful bomb with a big mouth and a very particular taste in red paint.