Page 124 of Biggest Player
“Mama Lucia’s Lasagna,” I read. The name of the restaurant is printed at the top, followed by step-by-step reheating instructions.
I feel a mix of amusement and annoyance bubbling up inside me.
“Dex!” I call out, wanting his ass in the kitchen so I can get answers. “You’ve got some explaining to do!”
Dex saunters into the kitchen, a smug smile on his face—the afterglow a man might display after getting thoroughly laid—until he sees the object in my hands.
His eyes widen, and he stops dead in his tracks. “Uh, I can explain.”
“Oh, can you?” I wave the paper instructions in the air, lips pursed. “I cannot believe you lied and told me this was homemade lasagna.”
He scratches the back of his head—if he’s trying to look bashful, the attempt fails. It comes off as immature.
“Okay, you caught me.” His hands go up. “It wasn’t homemade. But I swear, I made the pasta from scratch!”
I cross my arms. He so did not make that pasta from scratch—it’s part of the entire dish!
“Stop lying, dude!”
He gives me what I assume he thinks is another sexy grin. “Don’t call me dude.”
“Don’t change the subject.” I feel myself scowling, deepening the already dense wrinkles between my eyes. Ugh!
“You’re seriously pissed about this?” He sounds perplexed. “I just wanted to impress you.”
I sigh, tossing the bag back into the trash, where it belongs. “You didn’t have to lie to impress me, Dex. It’s the effort that counts.”
The lasagna could have seriously been a gross pile of slop, and I would have been thrilled he’d attempted it.
He takes a step closer, his expression earnest. “I know, I know. I just thought ...” Dex shakes his head. “I don’t know—I thought that you’d think I was more serious about dating you if I did something special and went through all the trouble.”
I soften a little—just a little, teensy bit—at the sincerity shining in his eyes.
“I already think you’re serious about us. People are allowed to change their minds, and I know we started off on the wrong foot, but ...” I step closer to him, walking into his open arms. “You don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not. I like you for you, even if you can’t cook Italian food.”
He visibly relaxes. “Really? You don’t hate me?”
Hate would be a bit harsh, eh?
“No, I don’t hate you for lying about fake cooking. But next time you have something to tell me, maybe tell me the truth.”
He chuckles, looking down at the floor. “Deal. I promise, no more lies.”
My eyes roam to the counter across the kitchen where flour is generously dusted. “And I’mnothelping you clean this mess up.”
“You’re not?”
I shake my head. “No.”
His hands go to my hips. “Are you sure?”
Dex picks me up, carrying me to the counter space where the rolling pin, flour, and measuring cups are strewn about. Lifts me so my ass is on the cold stone surface.
“I think you are going to help me clean this up.”
“You literally set me in your mess.” I try to glance backward. “There’s flour all over my ass cheeks.”
“I can help you with that.” Dex steps between my legs, pulling me so everything is at the edge of the countertop—all my best parts. Bare legs because I hadn’t gotten to the part of the program where I put all my clothes back on.
