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ChapterThirteen
Penny grinned when she heard the knock on her apartment door. It was Monday night and Gage had promised to bring dinner with him. He’d had a late meeting over drinks with a client, so she’d headed home on her own, anxious to tidy up her place and change the sheets after their marathon sexcapades this past weekend.
Gage was taking his role as tutor very,veryseriously.
She opened the door then frowned at the bags in his hands. “I thought you were bringing dinner. That looks like groceries.”
Gage shook his head, obviously disappointed in her reaction. “Itisgroceries,” he said, walking into the apartment and straight past her. He headed to the kitchen. “I’m going to teach you how to cook.”
Penny groaned as she followed him. “I know how to cook. I just don’t like it. Too much standing around.”
“That’s obvious.” He opened her refrigerator and pointed inside. “Two pizza boxes, four cartons of Chinese and half a sandwich leftover from the night we got takeout from the deli. The only thing in here that you bought at the grocery store besides beer and Yoo-hoo is condiments.”
“That’s not true.” She opened the freezer. “I have fudgesicles.”
Gage, clearly not finished making his point, forged on as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “You burned hardboiled eggs.”
“That wasn’t because I didn’t know how to make them. I told you. I got distracted.”
Gage started unpacking the groceries on the counter. “Fine. Tonight, we’ll cook without distractions.”
She snorted. “You’re like the biggest distraction in the world. You realize that, right?”
Gage reached out for her, giving her a quick kiss. She loved his kisses—all the variations. The long, soft, wet, open-mouthed ones. The rough, passionate, hard-enough-to-leave bruises ones. And even these fast, closed-mouth, almost platonic ones. Every kiss he gave her made her head spin, her heart race, and her pussy clench.
“Even bigger than Rhett and Link?” he asked.
“Even bigger.”
“Bigger thanWarzone?”
She tilted her head. “Way bigger.”
“Damn. I think I like that.”
She rolled her eyes then looked at his purchases. “Wait. Aren’t you Italian?”
“You know I am,” he replied.
“Isn’t it like some sort of cardinal sin to cook spaghetti with sauce from a jar or pasta from a box?”
He chuckled. “Probably. But given your reputation in the kitchen, I thought we should work our way up to the fancy stuff. Besides, it’s getting late and I’m hungry.”
“Me too. So…what do you want me to do?”
“I’d ask you to fill a pan of water and bring it to a boil for the pasta, but I’m afraid that might be too advanced for you,” he teased, bending down and pulling out two pans, one for the pasta and one for the sauce.
He’d been here every night since last Thursday, four nights—she was keeping count—and it surprised her how well he fit in her tiny one-bedroom apartment. It was very easy for her to forget he was seriously loaded, basically born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
He opened the jar of sauce, poured it in a pan, turned on the burner, and handed her a wooden spoon. “Stir.”
She did as he asked, half-heartedly, watching while he filled the larger pot with water and set it to boil. He continued to work with quiet skill, preparing the rest of their meal. Then he grabbed the corkscrew and opened a bottle of red wine, pouring each of them a glass.
“Here. You can have a drink while we cook. Maybe that’ll make you less grumpy about me forcing you to stand in the kitchen.”
He clinked his glass against hers, took a sip, then set it down so he could finish prepping their meal. He’d bought a pre-made salad and a box of frozen garlic bread.
“You seem very at ease in the kitchen,” she mused. “With all your money, I would have expected you to have a full-time housekeeper and personal chef.”
