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“Among others, yes.”

“I was picturing something different.”

“Hey, everyone I’ve made this for has loved it. It’s pasta, Quinn. You can’t really fuck it up, right?”

He has a point, and I’m not mad about some delicious carbs.

He fills a pot with water, and I settle onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, watching as he rummages through the cabinets for a second pot.

“Where the hell…”

“Bottom cabinet. On your left.”

He looks over his shoulder. “How do you know where my pots are?”

“Because I’ve been living here for three days.”

“Right.” He opens the cabinet. “Guess you know my kitchen better than I do now.”

“Guess so.”

He pulls out a pan. I watch him pour in the sauce, add a generous amount of pre-minced garlic, and stir everything together.

It’s nothing fancy. Just spaghetti and sauce from a jar, made by a man who’s clearly more comfortable holding a hockey stick than a wooden spoon.

But he’s making enough for both of us without making a big deal out of it, and for some reason, I like that more than I probably should.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to set the kitchen on fire.”

“I wasn’t.”

He turns to look at me.

I glance at the stove. “But now that you’ve mentioned it…”

“Jesus Christ.”

He laughs and turns back to the pot just as the water starts boiling over.

“Shit.”

He grabs the handle and pulls it off the heat.

I burst out laughing.

“Not a word,” he warns.

I hold up both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

He turns the heat down and adds the spaghetti.

I watch him for another moment before slipping off the stool. “Move over.”