Page 32 of Second Draft

Layla

“Good, you’re home,” Carter calls out from the kitchen when I walk in the house. “I made dinner.”

Frowning, I toss my purse on the table by the front door and follow the scent of garlic and basil. The house smells delicious, and my mouth waters. Still, I’m not sure what to think when I walk into the kitchen and see the table set, with fresh rolls, silverware and real fabric napkins.

Carter hovers over the oven, stirring a large silver pot, then moves to the counter and starts to dice vegetables, his big, tattooed hands working with the skilled precision of a gourmet chef.

Is there anything he can’t do?

The sight of this beast of a man making dinner isn’t just sexy, it’s pure erotic.

I rub my sweaty hands on my jeans, and try to get a grip on my hormones.

“What is this?” I ask cautiously, aware of how tainted I sound.

“Dinner.” He gives me a crooked grin, then nods at the table. “Sit.”

“You cook?”

“I’ve been told I make a mean plate of spaghetti.” He places a heaping plate of pasta with Bolognese sauce in front of me.

“This looks great. Thank you.” I can’t remember the last time someone made me a meal. Even when I lived with Kira, her idea of cooking was ordering takeout.

Carter limps slightly when he moves around the table, and I can’t help but notice the way he favors one leg. Placing the salad on the table, he pulls out a chair and sits down across from me.

I can feel his gaze on me as I take the first bite.

“It’s really good,” I say truthfully.

“It’s my mother’s recipe.” He passes me the salad.

“You made the sauce?” To say I’m impressed is an understatement.

“Yeah. It’s pretty easy.” A sad smile plays on his beautiful lips. “She used to make everything from scratch. Even grew her own vegetables in the backyard.”

“She sounds like an amazing woman.”

“She was.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes, but the awkwardness between us isn’t as strong as it was, and I actually enjoy the few quiet moments just being with him. It’s nice. Better than nice. It’s…intimate.

Him.

Me.

Dinner.

It seems like such a normal thing.

But nothing about this is normal, I remind myself.

“You played hockey, right? Travis mentioned that you used to be sort of a big shot.”

He looks at me with an odd expression, one that I can’t interpret.

“Yeah, used to be,” the words drip with bitterness. “I was injured a few years ago. Shattered my knee. Couldn’t play after that.”

“I’m sorry.” I look down at my plate, wishing I hadn’t brought it up.

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