“And we’re all eating very well since you came.” She placed her hand over Stina’s, stilling it over the dough.
Despite herself, Stina laughed. The outburst loosened a tight knot inside her, and together, she and Jolie finished the cinnamon rolls together.
But after they were out of the oven, Stina didn’t know what to do with herself. She went to her room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the cold concrete wall.
Then she gave up and walked across the hall to Rome’s room.
She didn’t let herself think too hard about why she was taking off her jeans and climbing under his covers, or why pressing her cheek into his pillow made her feel less lonely, but it did.
Maybe it was the soap and mountain air thing.
Maybe it was the bossy jerk thing she thought she gave up when she dumped her last boyfriend.
If she was forced to lie awake all night wondering if he was safe, she would do it right here—in the place where she felt less anxious than she ever did back in the safety of her own apartment.
And when Rome finally walked through that door, she would give him a piece of her mind for making her worry all day.
Right before she kissed him.
ELEVEN
Stina wasn’t cooking.
She was trying not to come apart.
Rome knew it the second he stepped into the kitchen and saw the cookbook open on the counter, ingredients scattered across every available surface and a pile of herbs he could only call pulverized instead of chopped.
She stood in the middle of the mess with a knife in her grasp and an expression that told him this had nothing to do with food.
He studied her from the doorway, taking in the tilt of her jaw and the way she glared at the spice jars like she was going to start throwing them.
While he watched, she squared up to the cutting board and placed an onion on top. She lifted the knife, letting it hover for a moment, then let it fall with a lethal chop.
The onion halves rolled apart.
“If you’re here to lodge a complaint about my methods, you can eat one of those…what do you call them? MREs.” She didn’t glance up when she spoke.
His mouth quirked upward and he stepped into the kitchen. “And I thought you were only a threat to onions.”
She slanted a look at him, and he approached, careful not to crowd her.
The scent of garlic, lemon and whatever was simmering in a pot filled the space. But beneath it was the sharper edge of tension.
Her shoulders lifted too high. Her movements had too much force behind them.
He leaned on the counter a few feet away from her. “You taking over the kitchen permanently?”
“Somebody should.”Chop, chop, chop.
“I’m not arguing. At the risk of sounding sexist, Sierra eats a lot better with you and Jolie here.”
That earned him a side-eye. “You’re not arguing? We always argue.”
“Tell me one time we’ve argued.”
“Did you hit your head today?” She scanned his face for bumps and bruises and found nothing but a grin.
Normally he’d rise to the bait she dangled—he loved arguing with Stina as much as taking her to bed. But he stood close enough to see the tightness around her mouth and the faint shadows under her eyes.
