Mister Romance by Amelia Simone (the reading list .txt) 📕

My first bite was bliss. The ravioli exploded on my tongue, with the richness of the butternut and ricotta and the hint of sage to offset the sweetness. I couldn’t help but groan in appreciation. I looked up from my plate to see Chase smiling smugly at me.

“See? Wasn’t it worth it?”

I had to give it to him. “Yes. You can cook with me anytime.”

His smile broadened. “Beware, I may take you up on that. Cooking for one is damn boring and not half as fun.”

I nodded again. “Seriously, feed me dessert and I may be yours.”

He tilted his head. “I just might take you up on that too.”

“Flirt.”

I was pretty sure he wasn’t serious, but the way his eyes darkened as I wrapped my lips around my fork had me wondering.

When our bellies were full, we cleared the table and relaxed in the living room with another glass of wine. I was feeling pleasantly mellow until Chase broached the topic I’d been avoiding all day.

“So, tell me more about this wedding and your family.”

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

I’d forgotten about Chase’s intense interview skills. He spent the next thirty minutes grilling me on the details of my immediate and extended family. I spoke haltingly at first, but by the time he was done, he knew all about Uncle Ted and Grandma Marie and hadn’t run screaming. Yet. Revealing the petty grievances and family schisms lightened the mental load I’d been carrying and helped me put them in perspective. Chase listened to me talk without judgment, soothing my nerves.

I was convinced it was the lure of playing James Bond for the night that had him sticking with me, not any excitement for the event itself. We’d settled on a basic story for my family that was essentially the truth; Chase would play a friendly date for the day.

Eventually he called a halt to the torture and fed me dessert. I had seriously undervalued the appeal of man who could cook well. Chase brought out cups of layered chocolate mousse that he’d made the night before. Orgasm in a glass. I must have been more vocal than I realized with my appreciation, because Chase asked, “Do you make these sounds during sex too?”

“Wait, what?”

I watched as color washed over his face beneath his stubble. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ask aloud. My inner narrator must be broken. Not that I hear voices, but you know. Didn’t mean to say that. Sorry again. How about those Mariners? Do you like baseball?”

His rush to change the subject signaled his distress, and I let him off the hook. “I must have sounded silly. I’ll try to play it more cool next time you offer me dessert. It’s just. So. Good.”

I watched his shoulders relax as he realized I wasn’t going to turn it into a thing. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. It’s fun to share my recipes with an appreciative audience. It’s lonely cooking for only me.”

“I can’t imagine it’s that hard to find people to cook for. What about friends or family?”

He smiled. “My buddy Jimmy is great, but he works a lot. He’s a firefighter with Tacoma FD so his schedule and shifts are unpredictable. Another good friend has a significant other, and they’re frequently busy with other couples. My mom and dad live a few hours south, too far away for casual meals.”

After I’d scraped every last millimeter of chocolatey goodness out of my cup and cursed my tongue for not being longer so I could lick the bottom of the bowl, Chase and I moved into the kitchen to clean up. He scraped dishes and handed them to me to load the dishwasher, then I started hand-washing his pasta attachment and the few other larger dishes we used.

Chase put the unused ingredients away before grabbing a dish towel and joining me at the sink. His hip bumped mine, and I couldn’t help but feel the burn of the contact. He was in my space bubble, and I could smell the wine and spices that clung to his skin.

I handed him a pan to dry and nearly dropped it as our hands brushed. The scrape of his skin shouldn’t have felt so intimate. I gave my head an aborted shake and reached for the next dish, focusing on the caked-on pasta dough and flour instead of the big man at my side. His hip bumped mine again, and I wasn’t sure if it was intentional or if he was dancing to a song only he could hear. As I handed him the bowl, I looked up into his face.

Chase’s upper body was angled toward me, his expression dreamy. His shoulder brushed mine as he stepped closer to take the bowl from my hands. I couldn’t help glancing from his blue eyes to his lips. Soft. And welcoming. Time slowed like a student counting down the final minutes of school, and suddenly I could hear the same inaudible beat he did, swaying farther into his space. My face tilted up, and as we neared touching distance, he took the initiative to lean in and place his lips softly against mine.

I stood on tiptoes to deepen the contact, and he smiled against my lips. That soft smile lit along every nerve ending, sending flutters through my belly. His lips brushed mine before diving headlong into an exploration of my mouth. Heat rushed between my thighs at the contact. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, beseeching entry, and I relaxed into the sweep of his tongue tangling with mine. Chase tasted of sage and wine. I was so invested in the brush of our mouths that it took me a moment to realize that we were still clasping the dripping pan between our bodies like an unwieldy chaperone. So distracted by Chase’s lips, I didn’t realize I’d left the water on until it was near overflowing the sink. I came back to earth with a splash as the water reached