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“Well, no matter how many times I see it, I’ll never get used to this.”
“Glad you like it. I’ll show you the guest rooms so you can unpack.”
Guest rooms. Plural.
He shows me a room lined with gold and modern slate-greys that opens into a bathroom from a luxury traveler’s wet dream.
“I think you get the idea,” he says. “I have a more elegant guest room connected to the balcony, but I thought this would be perfect for you two. It’s a little smaller, easier to look in on Millie.”
“It’s perfect. She shared a room with her mom, and I’ve been letting her stay in mine. I’m sure she’ll like it here.”
He nods. “Make yourselves at home. I want you both comfortable here.”
I smile at him so hard I could break.
“Thank you. Again.”
He looks at Millie, who’s running down the hall, flapping her hands like a hummingbird. We step out, and Nick blocks her path, leaning down.
“Careful, little lady, you don’t want a scraped knee. What sounds good for dinner?”
“Psketti and meatballs!” Millie says, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
I expect him to look at me to translate.
Instead, he just laughs in that masculine rumble that vibrates through me like thunder.
“Spaghetti and meatballs it is.” He turns to look at me. “Hope you’re cool with that since two out of three votes are in.”
“Totally,” I say, clasping my hands.
I may be facing hell, but right now, with this man, my heart runneth over.
Millie grins and claps her hands.
I put away our things, plop Millie down in the living room, and get her settled in front of some cartoons before I find Nick in the kitchen.
He’s chopping vegetables on his kitchen island. There’s already a sheet of plump, delicious-smelling meatballs rolled up and waiting to be baked.
“Whoa, dude. You make spaghetti the hard way,” I say.
“You know a better way? It was one of my Grandpa Godfrey’s favorite recipes. I learned from a master,” he says, pointing two fingers at his eyes and then at me. “Never half-ass psketti night, Reese. House rule.”
I laugh. “When I make spaghetti, it involves heating a jar of sauce and calling it a day. Maybe frying up some ground beef and onions in a pan, if I’m feeling adventurous.”
He shakes his head.
“The horror. I should’ve had you both over for dinner a long time ago.”
“In fairness, I’ve learned not to burn frozen nuggets and boxed mac and cheese quite well. I’ll catch up to you,” I say defiantly.
“And I’ll teach you to make an omelet better than sex before you leave,” he promises.
“Better than sex? Um...I’m going to need to taste that.” I turn away, blushing horribly, my eyes hiding nothing about what I’d really love to taste for comparison.
“Do you need help with anything?”
“From a girl who burns nuggets? No. Go play with the kid while I whip up the best sauce you’ve ever had.”
“Big promises, mister.” I fold my arms. “Can I hang out and watch?”
“Of course. Want a glass of wine?”
“Nick, you know I’m more of a beer girl. At least we’ve moved on from champagne...” I wink at him.
He gives me a knowing smile. I think the champagne incident feels like a whole lifetime ago to both of us.
While the sauce simmers, he turns on the radio, reaches in the fridge, and pulls out a couple freshly chilled bottles of a local brew I love. We clink them together, and I let his arm wind around my shoulders.
It doesn’t stop there, skimming fingers down my back. Every subtle flex of his fingers reminds me what a beautiful contrast he is.
His poise, his power, his control.
When his fingers brush the waistband of my pants, I suck in a breath, glaring pure heat into his eyes.
“If Millie weren’t here...” he whispers, a dark suggestion in his eyes.
“You—we—we’d both be in trouble,” I stutter back.
And I think we’re both lucky a loud, happy laugh from the living room swings us back to reality.
I give his collar a playful flick and push my shirt back down. While he stirs the sauce, taking long pulls off his beer and watching me the whole time, I insist on throwing together a salad.
“Do you always take over?” he asks.
“You’ve got the main course covered. I can handle a basic Caesar salad. It’s the least I can do.”
Millie comes padding in. “It smells like hangry in here!”
Nick smiles.
“Millie, we’re guests. Let’s save hangry for home, okay?” I say.
She crosses her arms. “But I’m hangry now, Auntie Reese.”
Nick laughs at her, thoroughly amused.
“Don’t encourage her. Not everything she does is cute,” I say.
“This is,” he says, pointing a wooden spoon at her. “Dinner’s almost ready for our critic.”
Now Millie laughs too.
I roll my eyes and go back to tossing salad, hiding a smile.
“Can we eat on the couch and watch Toy Story?” Millie asks.
