Page 95 of The Road to You
He hums. “That’s cheating. I’m cooking.”
“I’m bored. Tell me something I don’t know.”
I will never get tired of him talking about what he is passionate about, it doesn’t matter if it’s soccer or history. The way his eyes light up makes me fall even harder for him.
He stirs the pan, the scent of garlic blooming in the air. “About?”
“History. Come on, Professor. Impress me.”
Michele chuckles, but I feel the moment his brain kicks into gear. “Okay,” he says after a beat. “Did you know Cleopatra wasn’t Egyptian?”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “She wasn’t?” Well, there is something new to learn from him.
He shakes his head, proud. “She was Greek. From the Ptolemaic dynasty. Descendant of one of Alexander the Great’s generals. But she also embraced the Egyptian culture, and is basically considered Egyptian in her way of ruling.”
I blink. “You’re so hot when you talk nerdy to me.”
And it’s true. Because no matter how hot his body is, his brain is even hotter, and his personality makes him almost perfect in my eyes. He’s not perfect, I know, but he’s perfect for me, and I love that feeling.
He turns off the stove and faces me, spoon in hand. “You say that now, but you mocked my Roman Empire fact three days ago.”
I pretend to be offended. “I didn’t mock it. I just said your obsession is a littletooreal.”
He dips the spoon into the sauce and holds it out to me. “Taste it. And tell me I’m not the superior half of this relationship.” He winks and grins, knowing I don’t fall for his bullshit.
I chuckle and lean forward, licking the spoon with a dramatic moan. “Okay, damn. That’s unfairly good.”
“I know.” He sets the spoon down and leans in to kiss me, his hands sliding into my hair, warm and sure. The kiss is slow, like we have nowhere else to be. Because we don’t.
When we part, I whisper, “I love you.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “I love you more.”
“Nope,” I murmur. “Not possible.”
He kisses me again. And again. Until we’re laughing into each other’s mouths, my back pressed against the counter while he stands in front of me, shirtless, golden from the sun, and smug as hell because the sauce simmering on the stove smells like heaven and he knows it. His chest brushes mine when he leans in, his skin warm from the heat of the kitchen and the steam curling up from the pot.
I’m not cooking, I never am, but I’m exactly where I want to be: leaning against the countertop, watching him move with the kind of ease that only comes from doing something you love. Garlic and tomato fill the air, rich and comforting, and music plays low in the background, but all I hear is the sound of his laughter and the thud of my heart when he turns around and gives methatlook.
He reaches for me again, another kiss, just because he can, and this one is softer, lingering. A promise wrapped in warmth.I cradle the side of his face, my thumb brushing the curve of his jaw, and I think: this is it. This is everything.
No fairy tales. No red carpets. No need for the world to spin any faster than this moment right here.
Just him.
Just us.
Here.
Now.
Together.
And I never want to be anywhere else.
EPILOGUE
MICHELE
