Page 98 of Three Reckless Words

“Then you’re in luck,” he says proudly. “This might be my signature dish if you ask Colt. Let’s get started on the stuffed crust.”

Unlike the man standing beside me, I’m no cook.

Don’t get me wrong.

I can make some things like meatballs or cupcakes by following a nice recipe on my phone. But I’m hardly a natural in the kitchen.

I can’t just see something and know how it’ll taste.

Archer doesn’t seem to have that problem. He throws ingredients together without thinking, all muscle memory moving his large hands like the pizza artist he is.

He reaches into the wooden cabinets and pulls out his deep-dish pans.

I follow his lead, helping spread the dough into them, pressing it in evenly. At one point, I step back to look at him, the way his forearms flex as he works.

Dear God.

He’s a walking billboard for sex and he doesn’t even know it. Or if he does, he’s crazy subtle.

I rub my cheek, wishing I could slap away my stupor and wondering how on earth I wound up here and what I’m going to do about it.

What I’m going to do abouthim.

Neither of us have brought up the kiss yet, but we need to.

Preferably before someone implodes from the simmering tension in the air.

Before I do,I mean.

If we can just clear the air, figure out where we stand, maybe I can get past feeling his eyes strip me naked with every glance.

“Have you always lived around here?” I ask awkwardly, desperate to findsomethingto talk about besides his hands in that dough, or how much I wish he was kneading me instead.

“In Kansas City or this house, you mean?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Kansas City, born and raised, but we moved in here about… seven years ago now?” He pauses to think, pushing the pizza dishes back. The sauce is bubbling on the stove and he stirs it almost absent-mindedly. “Yeah, seven years sounds about right. I needed a fresh start with Colt after—you know.”

No, I don’t.

But I think I get what he’s not saying.

“It’s a cool house. You have a great sense of style,” I say flatly. I almost ask about his ex-wife, but that feels too much like prying, plus I don’t care to ruin the moment.

Another moment we shouldnotbe having, I mean.

“I got lucky. It took a lot of back and forth with my designer to figure out the finishing touches. Even my mother weighed in—she can’t help herself. Thankfully, I didn’t cause her a fit like my idiot brother when he decided to install a massive fish tank in his place.” He glances at me and frowns as I smile.

Those blue eyes hold mine, magnetic as ever, and he reaches up and touches my cheek, skimming his fingers over my skin.

I stop breathing.

“You had flour on your cheek,” he says, but his fingers linger.

For one stalled heartbeat, I think he just might be stupid enough to kiss me again.

Suddenly, no matter how large this kitchen is, it feels too small for us and the ridiculous tension making the air thick enough to chew.

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