Page 13 of A Very Grumpy Green Beret

His fingers linger against my cheek. I lean into his touch before I can stop myself, and his expression becomes fierce.

“Perry.”

The way he says my name sounds like a warning and a plea all at once.

A loud hiss comes from behind him.

“Your shrimp,” I blurt out.

“Fuck.”

I cover my mouth to hide my laugh as Luca spins back to the stove. He grumbles as he moves the pan off the burner and checks our dinner.

“Did you ruin it?” I tease.

“No, I’ll eat the burned pieces.”

I love that he’s so generous. My parents, Bryan, the people from my previous life, would’ve given me the burned pieces, not caring about whether I ate them or not. Luca is different. He’s so thoughtful, so generous. He’s different from anyone I’ve ever known. He reminds me of the heroes in my romance books, and I blush as I think about what I’d like to do to him.

He finishes the sauce and tosses it with the pasta before carrying two full plates to the small table beside the window. Pulling out my chair, he waits until I sit before taking the seat across from me.

I twirl the pasta around my fork and take a bite. A moan slips out before I can stop it.

Luca’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth.

“This is incredible,” I mumble.

His grip tightens around the silverware. “Glad you like it.”

I take another bite and close my eyes, savoring the lemon, garlic, and butter. When I look up again, he’s still watching me. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Yeah.”

He finally takes a bite, but his attention remains fixed on me.

We talk while we eat. Or, more accurately, I talk and Luca listens. I tell him about the bakery where I worked in Los Angeles and how I used to sneak broken cookies into the back room. I tell him about the tiny apartment I hated and the elderly woman downstairs who watched game shows at full volume every night.

He remembers every detail. When I mention that I always wanted to own a little bookstore with a coffee counter, he doesn’t laugh or tell me it’s unrealistic.

“You could do that here,” he says.

I snort. “With what money?”

“I could help.”

“Luca—”

“Or I could help you make a business plan,” he corrects when he sees my expression. “Find a space. Figure out what you would need.”

I stare at him across the table. “You really think I could do it?”

“I think you could do anything you wanted.”

The certainty in his voice makes my throat tighten.

I change the subject, asking him about his time in the military. He tells me about becoming a Green Beret, about his buddies, and some of his missions. He’s not a man of many words, but I love that he’s willing to talk, to open up for me.

We linger at the table long after our plates are empty. Luca eventually clears them and refuses to let me wash anything, so I sit on the counter and keep him company while he cleans.