Page 55 of Don't Remind Me
It was only when Baxter slid out the door to rub against my leg that the moment broke. Jase took a step back and cleared his throat. “Hey, come in.”
All sorts of delicious aromas greeted me as I trailed him into the kitchen, making my mouth water—onion and garlic and fresh herbs, and other combinations of ingredients I couldn’t place. I set the board game on the island, careful of the candles and wineglasses laid out alongside a plate of some sort of appetizer.
I sent him a sidelong glance. “I’m impressed.”
He gave a shy laugh as he reached for a glass of white wine. “I try.” He handed me the glass, then picked up an appetizer off the plate. “Come here,” he said softly.
I settled against the warmth of his body and let him place the bite in my mouth. As soon as it hit my tongue, my eyes fell closed on a moan, an explosion of umami richness bursting to life in my mouth.
“Oh my God, what is this?” Seriously, he could feed me anything,anything, and I would eat it.
“Fried parsnip crisp with sunchoke crumble and porcini puree,” he answered as I licked my lips, catching the few crumbs stuck there.
I opened my eyes and found him watching me as if he’d never seen anything more beautiful. He leaned in and caught my mouth in a blistering kiss.
“You like feeding me or something?” I asked as he pulled away.
He rested his forehead against mine. “You have no idea.” He nodded to the stools on the other side of the island. “Go ahead, take a seat. The next course is almost ready.”
“Course?” I perked up as he moved to stir something on the stove. “As in more than one?”
He rested the wooden spoon on the ceramic saucer and crossed his arms over his chest, the corner of his mouth rising. “There are five.”
“You know,” I said, closing the distance between us and wrapping my arms around his waist. “You’re playing a dangerous game. I might start expecting this level of culinary performance on every date.”
He smirked, bringing his mouth to my ear. “I’m counting on it.”
A delicious shiver ran up my spine.
I took a seat so he could serve me the next course of spicy tomato and pepper jam with charred flatbread that was—shocker—delicious. It continued that way for the rest of the meal, us eating together, talking about everything and nothing, him getting up to serve the next dish—first a watermelon and berry salad with chili lime dressing and herbs, and then summer corn tortellini with homemade pasta, all of it so good I could cry. He moved around his kitchen with the same controlled grace as at the restaurant, but even more hypnotizing because I could watch him openly here.
Somehow it felt like we had done this a dozen times already, eaten dinner together at his place, his thumb brushing back and forth across my thigh, me refilling his wineglass without having to ask.
I offered to help wash dishes, but he refused, insisting there weren’t that many. It was true only because he was as immaculate with caring for his kitchen as he was his food. He cleaned as he went, his sink never filling more than halfway before he put items in the dishwasher or rinsed them out by hand.
“I’m not this on top of the rest of my apartment,” he admitted. “But one of the chefs I used to work for said it was like artists cleaning their brushes. It’s about respect for your craft.” He shrugged. “It stuck with me.”
By the time we finished dessert—a dark chocolate brownie still warm from the oven that had me literally licking the plate, much to Jase’s satisfaction—I couldn’t eat another bite yet mourned there wasn’t more. Not just because the food tasted so incredible, but because of all of it. Of how much I enjoyed talking to Jase. How easy it was to open up to him. How being around him somehow made me feel more myself. A self I hadn’t known before yet recognized right away as the one I wanted to be.
It turned out it wasn’t just Jase’s food I couldn’t get enough of; it was all of him.
Eventually, we made our way to the living room to set up the board game. He insisted on reading the rules to make sure I didn’t give myself an unfair advantage, not that I would have. I planned to kick his ass fair and square.
By the end of the first hand, it was clear he was as competitive as I was.
An hour later, I jumped up from where I sat on the floor, arms raised above my head. “Hell yeah, baby, eat it!”
He threw his cards on the table. “I call foul play. You expect me to believe you justhappenedto draw the exact two cards you neededexactlywhen you needed them?”
I put my hands on my hips. “It’s called luck.”
“It’s called cheating.” He pointed an accusatory finger at me. “You stacked the decks, didn’t you? When I got up to get us waters? It’s okay, you can admit it. I won’t tell anyone.”
I skirted around the coffee table to where he sat on the couch and lowered myself in his lap. The glint in his eyes turned heated as I straddled him, his hands falling to my bare legs where my dress bunched at my hips.
“Don’t feel bad,” I said, nose brushing his, our mouths a breath apart. “Not everyone can be good at board games.”
He squeezed my thighs, his thumbs skimming closer to where I was already growing wet, his touch igniting my skin. “I’m amazing at board games,” he said, voice low.
