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There’s a thick smell of garlic sautéing in olive oil wafting through the house. “Are you making dinner?”
“Speaking of amazing, I make a mouthwatering Bolognese that is almost done. Since you’re here and you brought the drinks, why don’t you stay for the food?”
As his hand slides into mine, warm and all-encompassing, I follow him down the hall, kicking my shoes off and leaving them near the entryway.
Will’s home is comfortable. Cream-colored walls, wood furniture, and a hint of green accented throughout, including a large sectional sofa. His kitchen is a small galley type with dark wood cabinets on all sides and a bright white stone countertop. Our hands release when we enter, and he goes to the stove, stirring his sauce and raising the heat.
I stand here, unsure of what to do with myself.
Will shrugs off his sweatshirt and tosses it on the counter. The muscles in his back protrude—husky and ripped. I haven’t marveled enough at how well built this broad-shouldered man is. Probably because he’s always wearing thick clothing. He opens a cabinet and takes out a wineglass as I pull on the neck of my sweater, clearly warm from the working kitchen.
Will takes a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator.
I eye it quizzically. “Whispering Angel Rosé.”
“I bought it after your first arrest. Figured if it was potent enough to land you in my cell, then it was worth trying. Been saving it for a special occasion.”
He passes me the bottle, thumbing over to the drawer where I can find the corkscrew. Two glasses are poured, and I walk them over to where he’s standing.
Unlike Tara and her haphazard baking setup, Will is neat and organized. He only takes out what he needs and puts away the rest. The counters are spotless; you’d never know someone was cooking in here.
“Here you go.” I hand him a glass.
He turns his body toward me—tall and imposing against my now-shortened height, thanks to only being in my socks—and takes it. Our fingers brush. I think about that zing you hear about in romance movies, when two people touch and this current of electricity is felt deep within their bones. I don’t get that when I touch Will. No, this is better. His touch is warm and soft, as simple as the brush might be. It’s soothing.
We each take a sip, and I lean against the counter, waiting for his approval.
His full mouth purses. “It’s crisp. Fruity. Definitely not whiskey.”
“Can’t even be compared.”
His Adam’s apple is a magnet for my eyes as he drinks again, and I watch it bob with the action.
“Not my type, but it might just be exactly what I need.”
I do my own swallow and place the glass on the countertop before it accidentally slips from my hand. “Bolognese is really meant for red wine.”
“Says who?”
“Every cooking show ever. I believe Merlot would be the wiser pairing.”
His glass is placed on the counter, and he leans into me. “Well, I hate Merlot. I’d rather have what I want than swallow a drink I just can’t stand.”
“You want the rosé?” My question comes out timid and maybe a touch squeaky.
That lean of his draws him closer until his mouth is mere inches from my ear. “I want to drink every last damn drop.”
I’m not thick enough to not realize we’re no longer talking about wine.
I clear my throat. “So, um … I thought Bolognese sauces took, like, four hours to make.”
“I started this afternoon, let it cool while we were gone, and now, I’m ready to devour it.”
“Wow, that’s, um … quite the commitment for a meal.”
“The best things in life are worth the wait.”
I take a long swig of my drink until the glass is empty. The food analogies are going to my head, and now, I’m wondering if I’m so hard up for this man that I’m imagining it all.
