The Chemistry of Love(90)

I grabbed a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup and brought them out. “If I had to guess, no. Let me teach you the basics. This is a stove. This is the knob you use to turn the stove on.”

“I know how to turn things on,” he said in a low voice that had me quivering. “Want me to show you?”

Yes, please, my body begged. His words made me feel like I was standing in a massive thunderstorm and being hit by every bolt of lightning at once.

“What?” I finally squeaked out.

“Did you want me to show you that I know how to cook?” he asked in a semi-serious tone accented by his teasing lilt. “My Sicilian ancestors would be insulted by your implication.” He knew exactly what he’d just done to me, that innuendo of his that had nearly made me spontaneously combust.

“Okay,” I said, still not quite sure what had just happened. He went into the pantry and started gathering up ingredients. I sat down at the counter to watch him work and to try to calm down.

But watching him cut, dice, open cans, gather spices, and put everything together in a big pot did not help. Because this was all too attractive.

“What did you just say?” he asked, and I realized I must have muttered something under my breath.

I also was not quick enough to censor myself. “I said there’s something attractive about a man who knows his way around the kitchen.”

He turned his head to grin over his shoulder at me. “And the kitchen’s not even my best room.”

I told my lady parts that it would be inappropriate to ask for a demonstration in his best room. Why did he flirt with me like that automatically, even when we were alone? I supposed it might be like method acting, where if you stayed in character all the time, it was easier to slip into the part when necessary.

“Tell me about Comic Con and the Nerd Who Was,” I said. I needed the distraction. So while he finished up making us dinner, he shared stories with me about his past that was filled with the most delightful nerdery.

It was like stumbling across his bedroom had broken down a wall that he’d put up, and I liked seeing this side of him.

He’d made a soup with egg noodles. “Creamy chicken noodle soup without the chicken,” he told me as he handed me a bowl. “Do you want to go eat this in the living room?”

“Sure.” I followed after him, trying to be very careful and not spill because I knew Tracie would send me a bill and I couldn’t afford to break so much as a candlestick in this place.

When we settled in, I got my first bite. “Wow! This is really good!” I told him.

“You don’t have to sound quite so surprised. Did you want to watch the end of your movie?”

“Not really. The ending should be tried at The Hague. I need Lucasfilm to undo it and make a sequel. A cartoon, a novel, another actual movie, I don’t care as long as they bring Ben back.”

“Maybe I can make a call,” he said with a wink.

My heart forgot how to beat. “Do you know someone there?”

“No, but my dad does. And as the heir apparent, maybe I could sway him a little.”

If Marco got me Ben Solo back, I would marry him tomorrow. His connections reminded me again how different our lives were. “Are you going to inherit this house?”

“I hope so. My mom loved it here.”

I was seeing the appeal myself. “You’re part of this whole dynasty thing, which I do not get. The only things I’m inheriting are that barely functioning TV and Feather Locklear, who I’m pretty sure is going to outlive us all.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he said as he placed his empty bowl on the coffee table. “Sometimes I don’t know where my father’s demands end and where my dreams begin.”

I put my bowl next to his. “I guess you’ll have to figure that out.”

He gave me a half smile and turned his gaze toward the fireplace. I thought of how we hadn’t known each other all that long, but it felt like a lifetime.

How Marco seemed to remember everything about me and Craig couldn’t be bothered to recall my name.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” I asked him.

If he was surprised by the randomness of my question, he didn’t show it. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. It’s seared into my brain.”

“Your brother doesn’t remember when he and I met.”

“His loss. You would be a very hard person to forget.”

That made my throat feel thick, like it was impossible to swallow. I would never, not for the rest of my life, forget Marco, either.

As if he sensed that I was feeling a little emotional, he turned the conversation to a neutral subject. “My family will want to go skiing when they arrive tomorrow. Are you up for it?”

“Ugh. I don’t like doing things where I have to move my body.”

“Yeah, we’ve met.”

I smiled at him. A wave of tiredness crashed into me, and I leaned my head against the back of the couch. His leg brushed against mine, and I shivered from the contact.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

The fire had made the room very toasty, but I lied because of my own selfish interests. “Yes.”

He opened his arms and said, “Come here.”

Nobody had to ask me twice. I let him fold me into his embrace and nestled against his strong shoulder. I put my hand on his chest, loving his constant, firm heartbeat. I sighed happily.