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“You shared it with the dog?”
“Guilty!” He chuckles. “Dinner will be ready in like 20 minutes,” Tate says, looking in the oven.
“Perfect,” I say, glancing at my phone to check the time.
“Don’t worry about the time,” Tate says, clearly noting my glance down. “You can stay here tonight.”
“Oh?” I ask, feeling that familiar heat rush to my cheeks. Noticing me shift, Tate hurries and adds to his sentence. “Yes, I have a guest room. I already put clean sheets on the bed.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” I don’t want to sleep in the guest room though, that’s the only problem with this situation.
“Sure I did. I invited you to a late dinner. There’s no sense in sending you home at midnight.”
“I’ve been known to lose a slipper or two during that time,” I say, making a Cinderella joke that he gets. Honestly, it would suck to leave at midnight, but I didn’t expect that I’d be staying overnight and didn’t bring any clothes with me.
“I have an extra toothbrush too,” Tate adds. Damn, he’s perfect.
“Perfect.” I get up from my chair, taking my glass of wine with me, and walk toward him.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, our bodies in close proximity, and I watch as he swallows hard.
“Are you any good at chopping vegetables?”
“A pro,” I say with a lifted eyebrow. “I chop veggies at the café all the time.”
“Well, in that case.” Tate sets out some vegetables to chop for the salad, and when I fully step into the kitchen, I see a table off in the corner, set for two and a candle burning on it. The table is surrounded by bay windows, and I’m pretty sure with the lights low we’d be able to see stars. It’s intimate and perfect, and I wonder what I’ve done to deserve to be treated like a princess.
“So, have you thought things over?” Tate randomly asks, but he’s smiling, and I bet he already knows the answer.
“I have.”
“And?” he asks, trying to appease me.
While chopping the carrots, I’m feeling playful. Maybe it’s the wine.
“I’m afraid I’m too hungry to answer. Maybe after a few bites of pasta.” I wink.
“This might help,” Tate says, coming close to me and holding a piece of perfectly sautéed shrimp in the air. He’s testing me. I smile, and he brings the shrimp to my lips and places it into my mouth.
“Oh my God. That’s amazing.” I moan, placing a hand to cover my mouth while I chew. It’s hot and buttery.
“I love shrimp.” Tate pops a piece into his own mouth.
The salad is expertly composed in no time, and the pasta is ready. Tate pulls out a chair for me at the table, and I seat myself, placing a napkin on my lap. He carries over the bowl of salad, and the pasta and shrimp. The garlic bread is served in a basket. He’s gone all out to make this as intimate and special as possible.
“This is perfect.” I look around the table at what he’s done.
“May I?” Tate says, adding pasta onto my plate.
“Yes, thank you.”
He puts a huge mound of pasta in front of me, and I stifle a laugh. Clearly, nothing about that portion seems strange to him. I pick up my fork and twirl the pasta around it and stab a piece of shrimp. Tate watches me.
“Are you going to stare at me while I eat?” I playfully ask.
“I’m just waiting for you to take the first bite to make sure I didn’t mess anything up.”
I bring the fork to my mouth, taking a large bite of pasta. There’s something sexy about pasta. Tate watches me intently with a pre
