Page 67 of Forget Me

I washed my hands in the powder room while he finished up the food.

When he made to carry the two fragrant plates to the dining area, I stopped him.

“Can we eat here at the island?”

“Really?” He frowned. “But I didn’t clean up—”

“I’d rather not mess up your fancy table.” I glanced at the spotless glass. “And this is cozier.”

“All right, then.” He set down the plates and scooped the flatware off the table. He set a fork and knife precisely where they belonged. After I sat on the high stool, he fluttered out a cloth napkin across my lap. “Do you have everything you need?”

I smiled at my blond, blue-eyed chef and dance partner. “Everything.”

He clutched a fist over his heart, rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, and bit his lip.

“See?” I pointed an outraged finger at him. “Youcanflirt with me.”

He settled a hip onto his stool. “Flirt? Wait until I show you my smolder.” He raised his sandy eyebrows at me and then lowered his eyelids halfway. A teasing smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

“Oh my God.” I laid a hand over the center of my chest, where my heart fluttered like hummingbird wings. “The smolder.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “See? You broke me. That smolder would have worked on anyone else. Not my Mimi.”

He froze like he wanted to hit delete over those last two words. Never breaking our stare, I picked up my glass of wine and drained it. Then I licked the wine from the corner of my mouth. He followed my tongue’s movement.

“Mateo.” When I said his name, his eyes snapped to mine. “I think you’re the one who’s mine.”

“We’ll see about that.” His voice dropped into a lower register. “After dinner, when I show you what I’ve got planned for dessert.”

My mouth went dry when I imagined him laid out on the couch, his plush lips and all those muscles mine to explore. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“More wine?” he asked, tipping the bottle toward my glass.

“Please.” I splayed my fingers across the base of the glass, grounding myself. Dinner first, then dessert.

As we ate, he told me stories from his father’s tobacco shop. About the regulars there and the varieties they preferred. The sweet, summery Virginia blends. The light, berry scents of Cavendish. The spicy Latakia. I could almost smell it wafting on a warm Caribbean breeze.

For the first time, I understood why he smoked. It connected him with his father and brought back memories of their brief years together.

The food, too. It tasted of spices and wholesome love. The kind of love that cared for people, that nourished them. That became a memento of good times past.

I’d never forget the simple meal Mateo had prepared for me. Nothing fancy, no expectations or demands, only nourishment when I was hungry. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to fall for this man’s cooking and never want to eat anything else.

After I’d consumed the last juicy morsel of chicken, I set my fork on my plate and extended my hand toward his empty dish. “You cooked. I’ll clean up.”

“No, no, no.” He stood and snatched up his plate. “You’re my guest.”

“Then we’ll do it together. I may not have much in the way of cooking skills, but I wield a mean dish brush.”

“Ah.” He swept up my dish. “The magic of the instant cooker. It’s all dishwasher-safe.”

Still, I rinsed the dishes, and he loaded them into the dishwasher. The bachata music still played, softer now, bouncy and sensual. I wished I’d taken Spanish in high school like Ben instead of Latin. I wished I understood the words that went with the rhythm coursing through my veins.

While I rinsed out the sink, Mateo’s hands landed on my hips. “You’re a natural,” he whispered in my ear.

“A natural? At dishwashing?”

“No. At dancing.”

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