Page 11 of A Very Grumpy Green Beret

I don’t say any of that out loud. We might have confessed that we’re into each other, but I don’t want to come on too strong too fast.

Luca pulls ingredients out of the fridge and sets them on the counter: shrimp, butter, lemons, and fresh parsley. My stomach growls again, and his lips twitch.

“Need help?” I ask.

“You can sit.”

“I can also cook.”

He looks over his shoulder at me, his dark green eyes sweeping down my body again. His gaze lingers on the enormous sweatpants bunched around my feet. “You’re going to break your neck in those.”

I laugh, grabbing the waistband to push the sweatpants down my hips. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Luca freezes with his hand halfway inside a cabinet. “What are you doing?” His voice comes out strangled.

“Taking these off.”

His eyes drop to my thighs as I step out of the pants and kick them aside. The hem of his shirt falls almost to my knees, covering more of me than most of my dresses do, but Luca stares like I’m standing naked in his kitchen.

“Are you okay?” I ask innocently.

“No,” he mumbles.

I laugh, and his expression softens.

“I’m covered,” I point out, secretly loving his attention.

“Barely,” he mutters, turning back to the counter. “Sit down before I burn dinner.”

He points to one of the stools at the island. I climb onto it, trying not to smile at the flush creeping up the back of his neck. I like knowing that I affect him. A man who looks like Luca could have any woman he wanted, but he’s losing his mind over me in an oversized T-shirt.

I’ve never felt so sexy or desirable in my life. Most guys ignored me at school, preferring my model-thin classmates to the curvy girl in the corner. I don’t blame them. I was never interested in any of them either. Luca, though? Yeah, I want him.

I watch him move around the kitchen. He works with the same quiet confidence that he had when he changed my tire, like everything he does comes naturally to him. Water goes on to boil while he seasons the shrimp and melts butter in a pan.

“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask.

“My mom. She said if I was going to eat as much as I did, I needed to learn how to feed myself.”

I smile. “Were you always this big?”

“Pretty much. My mom called me her little linebacker.”

“Little?”

“Her definition was generous,” he says dryly.

I laugh again, and he looks at me like I just gave him a gift.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“You keep staring at me.”

“I like looking at you. Is that a problem?”

Heat rushes into my cheeks. Luca says things like that so matter-of-factly. No teasing smirk or practiced charm. He means every word, which somehow makes them hit even harder.