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His mouth is half smirk, half smile. “You don’t know how to make butternut squash pie, do you?”
I shake my head, because when I opened my mouth no words came out.
“It’s fine, Lena. We’ll do dinner first.” He reaches up, brushing my hair off my shoulder. “I’m sure there is something sweet I can find to eat around here when we’re done.” He leans down. My breath freezes. Is this it? The kiss? But he doesn't move. He only stares. In the movies the other person is supposed to lean in, I think. I wait a few seconds but nothing happens. His insinuating words about finding something sweet to eat keep replaying in my head. It’s not helping the ache between my legs. I think he was talking about me. Well, that’s not very churchy of him.
My phone starts to ring, and I scream from the surprise. My hand flies over my mouth. “Sorry,” I say as I push past him, running to find my phone. I see Kimber’s name lighting up on the screen. I hit decline and send it to voicemail. It begins ringing again, and I know if I don’t answer she’ll get worried.
I hit the green button. “Hey, I’m fine. I’ll call you back later. I have company.” I rush all of that out, trying to cut her off before she says anything embarrassing.
“Holy crap! Is he at your house? Are you okay?” Kimber says, obviously not getting the point.
“I know I said I’d call you when I got back home, but my neighbor came over unexpectedly and we are going to have dinner.” I swear I hear Kimber smile too. I hang up on her when she begins hysterically laughing.
“Everything okay?” Heath says from behind me.
“All good.” I look expectantly at the grocery bags. “Let’s eat so we can get to the dessert. That’s my favorite part.”
“Mine too,” he replies, but this time he graces me with a full smile.
6
HEATH
I’m not trying to come on too strong. But damn, when she talks about dessert and prances around in those tight little yoga pants, what’s a man supposed to do? I’m not made of stone.
Clearing my throat, I back off and grab the nearest grocery bag. “First thing we need to do is either boil or roast the butternut squash.” I pull the flesh-colored, gourd-like vegetables from the bag.
“I can boil things.” She chews her lip as she stares at the admittedly odd squash.
“Great. Get a big pot going, and I’ll cut these up. We can have the pie baking while we make dinner.”
“You’re a planner.” She bends over to get a pot.
I pray to Saint Julian, the patron saint of all hitmen, for strength, because she is testing me. Turning to my work, I find a cutting board next to the stove.
“Do you ever cook?” I look at the spotless burners.
“I cook.” She starts filling the pot. “You know, occasionally.”
“Right.” I smile as I look in the silverware drawer and grab a knife.
“You know your way around this kitchen pretty well.” She’s watching me over her shoulder.
“Lucky guess.” I slice the ends from the squash, then cut it into large chunks.
“You also know your way around knives.” She sets the pot on the stove and walks up beside me. “You did that so fast, and all the pieces are the same size.”
I shrug and dump them into the pot, then turn the burner on. “Just been cooking for a long time.”
“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
“We boil those for about half an hour. Then they’ll be nice and tender so we can make a puree from them. After that, we mix in eggs, sugar, and flour, and we have the filling. All we have left to do is make the pie crust.”
“Whoa.” She twirls a lock of her red hair around her finger. “That sounds like a lot.”
“Not really.” I wipe my hands on the kitchen towel with the smiley cat on it. “Baking takes my mind off things. It’s very specific on how much of this, how much of that, what temperature things need to be. I like that.”
“You like instructions?”
