Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(27)

“It’s a meal I didn’t have to cook. I’m sorry, but I’ll get excited and you’ll just have to tolerate it.” She hopped up onto a stool and watched as he worked, using a spoon to mix something in a bowl. “I see sauce on the stove, so what’s in the bowl?”

“Your project.” He set it in front of her, taking her fingers and wrapping them gently around the spoon. When she looked down, she saw frothy melted butter. “Italian spices, garlic, salt and pepper. It’s for the garlic bread. Season it however you want, and I’ll brush it on and toast the bread.”

“Trusting. For all you know, I could be a total garlic fiend.” Her smile was mischievous as she reached for the powder. “You wouldn’t want to be within a hundred yards of me.”

“I’ll always want to be near you, Kara.” He dropped that quiet bombshell like a rapper dropping the mic, then turned to the stove to stir the sauce.

“Oh,” she breathed out, then, with shaking hands, picked up the first seasoning and started sprinkling. She tried to speak, but nothing came out so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Reagan told me you didn’t know she was coming over.”

“I had no clue. Greg and Brad’s lives have become almost dangerously boring, so they’ve taken to meddling with mine.” He glanced over his shoulder quickly before turning his attention back to the stove. “I can’t complain though, since the result was you coming for dinner.”

She’d had a moment of doubt, as Reagan had shown up and insisted she go out for dinner—but not before changing out of her sweats and fixing her hair. Dinner with Graham was bad enough. Dinner at his home, with no servers, other patrons or the bustle of restaurant chatter to act as a buffer was too intimate to think about.

Then she’d realized this was her chance. The opportunity she’d needed to explain exactly why she’d played hard to get on accident. Why he needed to give up the idea of pursuing her and move on to someone he could make a life with.

Whoever that lucky bitch was.

Not very Zen of you, Kara.

Who cares? Thanks to Henry, she was once again missing out on life.

Graham took the bowl back from her and used a brush to coat a loaf of French bread he’d obviously pre-sliced. Sticking that under the broiler, he drained the pasta in the sink. “Should be about five minutes.”

“Italian, hmm.” Propping her chin on her hands, she watched with appreciation. Just because she couldn’t make a meal out of him didn’t mean she wasn’t allowed to fully consider the menu. “Who taught you to cook?”

“It’s boiled pasta and a simple red sauce.”

“Which a lot of guys would not be able to handle. And girls. Takeout is too prevalent today. Give yourself a little credit.”

He nodded, checked on the bread, then stood again. “My yaya taught me.”

“Yaya . . . grandma?”

“Yup, on my dad’s side. Born and raised in Greece, then came over here when my dad was about ten. Just her, her six kids—”

“Six,” Kara breathed.

“—and the promise of work in her uncle’s bakery. Best baklava you could ever hope to taste.” He closed his eyes a moment, as if imagining taking a bite from the Greek dessert. That moment of pure delight made her want to reach for him.

“So your very much Greek yaya taught you to cook . . . Italian food.” She smiled as he raised a brow. “Come on, it’s funny.”

“Much to my yaya’s dismay, I actually don’t care for Greek food. Or most of it,” he added, and she could tell he was thinking of baklava again. “But the basics of cooking remain the same, regardless of the dish’s origins. She bakes like a dream, and is a pretty good cook, too. Taught my mother, who is not Greek, a few things. They’re tight, which is pretty cool since I know what the stereotype about Greek mamas and their sons can be. But Yaya just assumes everyone wants to be a part of the family, and treats them like it. Everyone gets fed until they can’t do anything but roll away from the table. If you can eat, you can be family.”

“She sounds awesome.” The pang of longing hit her harder than she expected. That family connection, his obvious love for them, and the fact that Zachary would never have that with either set of grandparents.

“I’m lucky to have her. We all are. She is the definition of the word ‘matriarch.’ You’d love her.”

He said it casually, but it brought her back to the purpose of the dinner. “Graham—”

“Dinner’s ready.” Cutting her off, he brought the garlic bread from the oven, and it smelled divine. “Could you set the table? I tossed some silverware and cups over there, but didn’t get a chance to make order out of it.”

She set it quickly, pleased to see he’d given them simple tumblers instead of wineglasses. No alcohol for her when she’d be driving home soon. Probably none for him, either, given his workout schedule. She filled both their glasses with ice water, and when she returned to the table she found he’d already plated her food and had it waiting. The heaping pile of spaghetti topped with spiced red sauce and a few meatballs was about double what she could really eat. But she didn’t complain, merely sat down and waited for him.

“Okay, need anything else?” he asked as he set the salt and pepper shakers in the middle. “I’m not really used to eating at the table. I’m more of a ‘sandwich on the couch with a paper towel’ guy.”