Page 27 of My Brother's Roommate (Frisky Business 2)
I reach for my phone, hoping that something in our texts will give me some sort of clue. Has he at any point even hinted at a food he likes? Or mentioned what kind of takeout he was ordering?
It takes all of ten seconds to scroll to the top of our existing conversations without finding anything helpful.
Well. That did approximately nothing.
I pocket my phone, trying to refocus on the pantry instead of the taunting green numbers on the oven clock. It’s six fifteen, only forty-five minutes until Wolfie arrives.
I guess I could call Connor and ask him what his roommate’s favorite foods are, but that would be opening the floodgates on a million and one questions, none of which I have an answer to. Because the truth is, aside from eating whatever it is I finally decide to cook, I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen with Wolfie tonight.
If it were only up to me, we’d be finishing what we started at the lake house before we were so rudely interrupted by my brother. But with Wolfie, there are no guarantees. Only hopeful expectations. And tonight, what I’m hoping more than anything is that he’ll open up to me more. If this dinner snafu has taught me anything, it’s that there’s still a lot for me to learn about this man.
Just when I’m ready to throw in the towel and order a pizza, I spy two boxes of penne tucked in the far back of the pantry.
Thank God. Everybody likes pasta. And if they don’t, I honestly don’t trust them. I bring a pot of water to a boil on the stove, then locate all the ingredients in my fridge for homemade alfredo. And what kind of monster doesn’t like alfredo sauce?
By the time the glowing green numbers on the oven flash seven o’clock, the sauce is simmering on the stove, the table is set with wine, bread, and two plates of penne. Not bad for a last-minute dinner date. It takes a few tries to get my smart speaker to respond to me, but soft acoustic music eventually fills my tiny apartment, setting the perfect mood.
That mood is instantly interrupted, however, by the motorized buzz of the intercom, announcing Wolfie’s arrival. Just the sound of it makes my stomach go full track-and-field star and high-jump into my throat.
Jeez. I guess I was too busy feeling frustrated about dinner that I hardly noticed how on edge my nerves have been.
With a deep breath, I press the button to buzz my guest in and try to tamp down the jitters in my belly. Moments later, I hear the muffled trudge of him coming up the stairs, followed by three quick knocks at my door.
“Coming!” With one last check of my reflection in the microwave, I head for the door and let him in.
Maybe it’s the way his coat is zipped all the way up to his chin to block out the cold, or maybe it’s the mysterious soothing effect those stormy eyes have on me. But one look at Wolfie standing in my doorway and everything—my nerves, my frustration about cooking dinner, all of it—instantly tumbles away. As for Wolfie, when his eyes meet mine, his usual scowl gives way to the barest hint of a smile.
“Since when does winter start in November?” he says, shuddering for effect.
“Since forever. This is Chicago.”
I slink away from the door frame and he follows me inside, careful to take off his snowy leather boots while still on the welcome mat. God bless him for that. I just cleaned these floors. Under his coat, he has on dark-washed jeans and a soft-looking gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. It’s precisely the same shade as his eyes.
“Smells great in here.” He slings his jacket over a free hook on my coat rack, scanning my apartment with curious eyes. “Looks great too.”
“Thanks. I hope you like pasta.”
He lifts a brow. “Doesn’t everyone like pasta?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
As I lead him into the kitchen, he continues to take in his surroundings, his gaze pausing on some of the more unique elements of my apartment—my antique bookcase overflowing with mystery novels, the stepstool I keep in the corner to help me change light bulbs and reach things on the top shelves. All normal, everyday things for me, but Wolfie looks at them like artifacts in a museum.
“This place is so . . . you,” he says finally, running his fingers along the label of my whiskey bottle turned flower vase. “Love it.”
“Then maybe you should come by more often.” The words tumble off my lips so naturally, I almost don’t realize how flirty I’m being. “I mean, you’re welcome anytime.
Wolfie smiles, his eyes meeting mine. “What’s on the menu for tonight?”
“Not whiskey, for once,” I tease, and it earns me one of his signature throaty laughs. “I made pasta. And there’s wine too. Although I’m not sure that rosé pairs with alfredo, but it’s all I had.”
