Page 118 of Biggest Player
Another demure shrug. “I don’t know, like twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes!” I shriek, voice shooting up a million octaves. “Stop it, there is no way.”
Dex blushes. “Maybe it was more like an hour. I wasn’t keeping track.”
I relax back into my seat. “Even so, making your own pasta is ... impressive.” Like, wow. My stomach grumbles. “I can’t wait. I’m starving.”
Dex chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through the kitchen air. He moves closer, scooting around the counter to my side, the scent of fresh basil clinging to his clothes.
Oh my God—yum.
My eyes trace the lines of his face, his jawline dusted with stubble, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks good.
Good enough to eat.
Down, girl. You haven’t had dinner yet; stop thinking about making him dessert!
I try to focus on anything else, but my mind drifts. I can’t help but imagine him kneading the dough to make the noodles, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each motion. I find myself wondering if those same strong hands could be just as skilled in other areas ...if you catch my drift.
“So.” I swear my voice cracks as I try to steer my thoughts back to a normal conversation. “What’s the secret to your pasta? Besides an absurd amount of patience?” I know how tedious sauces can be.
Dex grins, a playful glint in his eye. “If I told you my secret, I’d have to kill you.”
I laugh, the sound a bit too loud in his cavernous kitchen. “Guess I’ll have to live in suspense.”
He leans in, his arm brushing mine as he reaches for the wine bottle. The contact sends a shiver up my spine.
Spellbound, I watch as he pours himself another, the liquid swirling and catching the light.
“Cheers. To homemade pasta,” he says, raising his glass.
“To homemade pasta,” I echo, clinking my glass against his.
“And us,” he adds, winking.
Us.
“Seriously,” I say. “Thanks for offering to cook—the best food is the food I don’t have to make myself.”
He chuckles. “It’s not that hard. Just takes a bit of practice.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I set down my glass. “But you might have to show me sometime.”
“A private cooking class?” he asks, one brow raised.
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking. My breath catches in my throat as his hand brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is gentle, almost hesitant, but it sends a thrill through me.
But.
Now we’re interrupted, this time by the timer on the oven.
Chapter 27
Dex
My goal was to impress Margot, and it worked.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I open the oven and see the bubbling, cheesy pan of lasagna that had been delivered personally, by the restaurant, a mere thirty minutes before Margot arrived.
