Page 17 of All I Need (Hearts of the South)
Was he crazy or had that been a subtle double entendre on the wordcook? He could handle that type of cooking with her.
“Savannah, I don’t cook.”
“Seriously?” Brows lifted, she looked at him askance.
“Seriously.”
She shook her head. “Then how do you live?”
“Sandwiches. Stuff I can microwave.”
“You have cookware, right? Because I planned on using your kitchen.”
“Well, yeah. I have it. I just don’t use it.”
“Great.” With her spare hand, she patted his chest. “I’ll see you in about half an hour.”
“I’ll leave the door unlocked. Let yourself in.”
He showered quickly, his thoughts straying to that brief contact between her palm and his chest. He could swear she’d lingered over that touch, the pat shifting into a caress. In the bedroom, he snagged a pair of comfortable cotton shorts that didn’t bind his leg and tugged on a buttondown. He turned the cuffs back a couple of times and eschewed the idea of shoes.
The front door swung inward as he stepped into the short hallway. He rubbed a hand over his damp hair and grinned at the picture she presented in a simple, swingy black dress and sandals consisting of only a couple of straps. Damn, she made everything look good. “Hey.”
“Perfect timing, huh?” Her brown gaze traveled over him, lingering a moment on his bare feet before meandering back to his face, and something—an element of pure hunger—in that glance heated him up.
“Yeah. So what’s on the menu?” He reached for the bag and peered inside. Canned tomatoes, an onion, pasta, ground meat. “Spaghetti?”
“Yes.” She walked ahead of him to the kitchen, the skirt swirling around her thighs. “It’s easy to make, and every guy needs a go-to meal he can cook for a woman. Now’s as good a time as any to learn.”
He opened his mouth to ask why he’d need to cook for another woman, remembered their parameters, and closed it again. She took the bag from him, her fingers brushing his wrist. She unpacked the ingredients.
“You said you had cookware, right? We need a skillet and the largest saucepan you have.”
He bent to retrieve the pans from the cabinet by the stove. She shifted while unwrapping the ground meat, the side of one leg sweeping along his arm and shoulder. His senses perked up. She smelled as good as she looked.
At her direction, he tracked down a cutting board, a knife, and a colander he’d forgotten he even owned.
She examined the skillet and saucepan. “Did you buy this?”
“No.”
“Let me guess.” Irony tipped the corners of her mouth. “Christmas gift from your mom.”
“Birthday.” He dropped his phone into the charging station and set it to fill the kitchen with low music, the playlist he needed to be practicing if he was going to play with Troy Lee and Clark for real.
“Again, she has good taste.” She set to work stripping the onion of its peel, then sliced off both ends. “She didn’t teach you to cook?”
“She tried.” Looking back, he was pretty sure those attempts had been more about connecting with him than making sure he could fend for himself, but he’d been hardheaded for real in his late teens.
“Well, I’m going to succeed.” She gestured at the cutting board. “Get over here.”
“What?”
“Come on.” She slapped the knife handle into his hand with a solid smack and turned him toward the counter. “Cut it in half, then slice each half fairly thin.”
The remnants of his stubbornness considered rebelling for half a second, until he realized she was pressed to his back, her hands coming around to guide his in the actions she described. The easy up-and-down movements of chopping each slice rubbed her breasts into him, and arousal stirred in his gut, tingling down to his balls.
Hell, he’d never realized cooking could be sexy. She touched him often as they prepared and tested a quick sauce while the pasta boiled—leaning into his arm to guide his hand, passing her palm over his hip, swiping a hint of sauce from the corner of his lip after they tasted from the same spoon. By the time the pasta was done, he was on high alert and buzzing, as heated as the steam rising from the finished meal.
