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“Thank you.” My feet take me into the modern house that was surprisingly cheaper than any hotel here.
“This is nice,” Xavier tells me before he drops his bag onto the floor, his eyes roaming the interior.
I smile at him. “Are you tired, or do you want something to eat?” I ask him.
“I’m not that tired, the time change wasn’t drastic.”
“Come on.” I wave him over toward the kitchen.
The house comes with groceries already in the house, so why not use it to our advantage?
“Can you cook, Blondie? Or do I have to be worried you’ll burn down the house?”
I scoff. “Offensive. For your information, I can make a mean pasta.” My brow quirks up in protest.
“Is that so?” He gets closer to me.
His face becomes increasingly closer to mine.
Why do we get ourselves in this position every time we’re alone?
His head turns quickly before he opens the fridge. We both look inside intently, finding most of the ingredients to make spaghetti. I walk away not only because we’re too close to each other, but so I can go see if there’s pasta in one of the cabinets.
My hand meets the handle to the white marble cabinet.
“We have all the ingredients.” My head turns over my shoulder to make eye contact with him. But he’s right behind me. Our faces are close to each other again.
His gaze is on me briefly before he observes the uncooked spaghetti.
“Perfect.” His face is so close that I feel him smile before his hand brushes against mine softly, taking the packaged pasta out of my hands.
“What if I propose a contest?” he tells me just as I’m about to close the cabinet.
With a thud, I turn back toward him, my hands on my hips. “Are you challenging me to a cook-off?”
“What? Are you scared, Blondie?” His words aren’t menacing but rather playful.
“You’re the one who should be scared, not me,” I tell him firmly.
“Very funny.” He goes back to arranging the fresh vegetables.
“Deal,” I agree. “What does the winner get?”
“I don’t know. What do you want?” he asks.
“One of your precious cars you have in Brazil.”
He stills. “Over a pasta competition?” He turns in my direction, holding in laughter.
“Yep, these are high stakes. Go big or go home,” I tease.
His laughter erupts through the kitchen. “Which car?”
“Your Ferrari.” That’s when his face turns into an uncertain one.
“No.”
“Yes.” I challenge. “I thought you were the king of making spaghetti. What’s the problem? Are you scared?”
