Page 62 of Hearts on Ice
When I opened the door, I didn’t even get a word out.
Miguel stepped in like he’d been holding his breath all day and I was the air. His hand fisted in my hoodie, tugging me forward, and then his mouth was on mine—rough, hungry, sure.
I hit the wall, not hard, but enough to feel it at my back. His body pressed against mine, solid heat, the kiss deepening until the world narrowed to the taste of him, the sound of our breaths, the way his tongue swept over mine like he needed this as badly as I did.
My hands found his hips, his shirt, the hard line of muscle beneath. He groaned when I dragged him closer, and something low and dangerous sparked in my gut.
My skin went hot, my pulse hard. I wanted him stripped bare, wanted to feel every inch of him.
He pulled back, breathing ragged, his forehead resting against mine.
“Hi,” he said, a crooked grin ghosting across his lips.
“That your way of saying hello?” My voice came out hoarse.
“Been thinking about doing that since Sunday.”
I swallowed hard. “Can’t say I minded.”
He chuckled, and that sound—deep, warm, pure Miguel—snapped me back to why we were here.
“Let’s finish cooking our meal,” I managed.
Miguel grinned. “You sure you want to focus on food right now?”
“Positive.” I slipped out from under his arm, even though my whole body protested the space. “Wednesday night. My rule.”
He followed me to the kitchen, still close enough that I could feel the heat of him at my back.
The skillet sizzled softly on the burner, lemon and garlic in the air. I gave it a slow stir while the sauce thickened around the chicken. Miguel leaned a shoulder against the counter, pretending to help but really just watching me, teasing under his breath, stealing roasted potatoes from the tray whenever he thought I wasn’t looking.
“Pretty sure you’re supposed to stir that,” he said, grinning.
“I am stirring,” I said. “You’re hovering.”
“Supervising,” he corrected. “Coach needs coaching sometimes.”
“Then make yourself useful and hand me the pepper.”
He glanced around until I nodded toward the spice rack. He picked up the pepper, brushing his knuckles along mine as he passed it over, deliberate and slow.
“This one?” he asked.
I exhaled a laugh. “You’re terrible.”
“Terrible looks good on me.”
“Debatable,” I said, but I was smiling, and he knew it.
The food came together fast—chicken simmered in a lemon-caper sauce, roasted potatoes crisping in the oven, the smell rich and warm, like home.
We didn’t bother with plates. We ate right there at the counter, sharing from the skillet, passing a fork back and forth, laughing when he stole the last potato.
“Hey,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “That was mine.”
“Possession’s nine-tenths,” he said, still chewing.
I rolled my eyes, and before I could fire back, he leaned in, voice low against my ear.
