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“You like?” Adrian says from behind me. He leans against the doorframe with his hair wet and water droplets running down his chest, disappearing below the towel wrapped at his waist.
“It smells like you,” I admit reaching for him, but he grabs my wrist before it reaches his towel.
“Dinner’s waiting,” he says, pulling me with him out of the bedroom and into the living room.
TheBlack Crowesplays softly on Adrian’s record player. The food smells amazing, and my stomach growls.
“I’ll be right back. I need to change.” He smiles while I pout, watching as he walks back down the hall and disappearing into his bedroom.
While I wait for him, I pour a glass of wine and hop up on the counter next to the stove where the food stays warm. Taking a sip of my wine, I realize Adrian has great taste. I pull the bottle towards me reading the label; a local Riesling made in Tucson. Looking at the glass I raise an eyebrow, not realizing they even had wineries in Tucson. Whatever Adrian made is covered, staying warm on the stove, and I can’t help but take a peek. Looking around for utensils, I lean down and pull the drawer open between my legs, taking out a fork. Before I can even lift a piece of it to my mouth, Adrian pulls the fork from my hand and shakes his finger at me.
I jut out my bottom lip. There are so many things to pout about this evening – one, that I’m hungry, and two, Adrian now has a shirt on.
“You are very impatient tonight,” he says, standing between my legs, his hair towel-dried but still inky black from the water.
“I’m hungry,” I protest. “What is this?” I point to what looks like a tiny egg roll, but the wrap is thinner and has a layer of sauce on it.
“Sarmale,” he says, with a thick Romanian accent.
I raise an eyebrow as he laughs.
“It’s basically cabbage rolls,” he explains.
“I don’t eat meat.”
“I know, that’s why I only used tofu and vegetables.”
“You remembered?” I ask while taking a bite, still a little bit shocked because the one and only time I mentioned that I don’t eat meat was at my sister's rehearsal dinner.
“I remember everything.”
As I reach for the fork, he pulls it away. “Very impatient,” he says, shaking his head.
“Gimme,” I say laughing, and he holds the fork between us, extending the food to my lips, intent on feeding me.
“You look good in my shirt,” he says, eyes roaming over my body. I could blame the warmth in my belly on the wine, but I’d be lying.
Eyeing him speculatively, I can’t help but wonder what in the hell he sees in me. I’m a forty-three-year-old woman with a teenage daughter and an attitude that I have no intention of changing, and yet here is this man who finds pleasure in giving me orgasms and feeding me.
While shaking my head, he asks, “What?”
“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask, taking a sip of my wine, my belly feeling nice and full.
“My mother,” he explains, and I raise an eyebrow at him.
“How did I know you were a mama’s boy?” I tease.
He smiles while taking the wine glass and setting it down on the counter next to me. Snaking my arms around his neck, he brings another forkful to my lips, and I eat it gleefully.
“I’ve never eaten a meal on someone’s kitchen counter before, but I think I like it.” I raise my eyebrows.
“Well, that’s a shame, because it’s the best way to have dinner.”
I see Adrian in a different light. He’s not just the young, cocky musician with the dirty mouth, but a businessman who is good with his hands – in more ways than one.
He takes a bite for himself. “Before I was big enough to help my dad, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my mom,” he explains.
“Holding the apron strings,” I finish, making him laugh.
