Page 37 of Casita Casanova
My stomach growls in response and I nod.
“Okay. I’m just making pasta, nothing fancy, but you’re welcome to it.”
“That sounds great, thank you.” Maybe a little cacio e pepe, or some veal parmigiana…
Growing up in New York, surrounded by third generation Italians, left me somewhat of an expert on the stuff. I stand as she reaches me, then follow her through the front door of the house, Ribbit bounding beside me like we’re going somewhere exciting.
The living room is beachy and welcoming, with beige furniture and touches of blue in the pillows and art hanging on the walls. Seashells dot the surfaces of the coffee table, shelves, and a large armoire against one wall houses more shells scattered among picture frames. I step over to it and scan the photos. They’re mostly snapshots of Maryn and a young girl who looks just like her.
“Come on,” she nudges.
I turn around and she’s eyeing me warily, so I won’t mention that her daughter is, in fact, just as hot as her mom.
There’s a hallway to the right, which I’m guessing leads to Maryn’s room, but she leads me to the left into the small kitchen instead.
After she washes the front yard off her hands, she grabs a bottle of white wine from the fridge and holds it up in the air, so I nod, then she pours two glasses and hands me one. “Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand,” she explains.
I take a sip, then lean my hips against the counter and watch her get to work. She pulls a box of pasta from a small cabinet beside the fridge, then follows it with a jar of…
I frown.
Jarredpasta sauce?
She glances at me, then does a double take. “What is it?” Her gaze flicks to the wine in my hand. “You don’t like the wine? I think I have a bottle of red, or—”
“No, no, it’s fine.”
Her brow furrows. “You’re frowning.”
You’re using jarred pasta sauce.“Just thinking about something back home.”
Her eyebrow twitches but doesn’t rise. “Which is…?”
“Not here.” I flash her the panty dropper and she shakes her head, then resumes making dinner.
If it can even be called dinner.
“Here.” She opens the fridge, pulls out a bag of salad, and hands it to me. “If you’re going to be in here, you might as well help instead of just watching.”
I look down at the bag in my hand.Sauce in a jar. Salad in a bag.What fresh hell is this?
She steps beside me and reaches up above my head. I turn toward her, my gaze falling to the long line of her body, the side of which is on full display for me with her arm stretched out like that and her overalls covering every curve and yet somehow leaving nothing to the imagination. Her lace panties peek out at me from the side of her hip. I lick my lips and she clears her throat.
So I meet her gaze.
Her lips are pursed. “A little help?”
Holding her gaze, I brush my knuckles up her arm until my hand lands over hers on the lip of a glass bowl. She shivers and I look up her arm, smiling at the goosebumps I’ve just created on her skin, then grab the bowl and hand it to her.
“Thank you.” Her voice is tight.
I incline my head, smirking as she steps quickly away from me. She grabs a pot and fills it with water, then adds a sprinkling of salt and a drizzle of olive oil and sets it on the burner, turning the knob to high before she moves on to the next task. With my hips against the counter, I sip my wine as I watch her busy herself with cooking—and avoiding me completely. Can’t say I’m not amused by her determination. I don’t think I’ve ever had a woman actually try so hard toignoretheir attraction to me. Quite the opposite, in fact.
As she chops mushrooms, onions, and garlic, she hums little bits of the song she’d been singing earlier, and in my head, I hear the lyrics of “Pony”, smiling at the context of the song and wondering what made her think of it today. Was it me? My arrival?
Frankly, Maryn, I’m horny, too.
But what else is new?
