Page 31 of Sweet Madness

Suddenly, the rhythmic clang of pots and pans being deftly maneuvered on the stove pierces through the air, pulling me from my thoughts and catching my attention.

Behind the kitchen counter, Shaw moves, his silhouette outlined by the warm glow of the overhead lights. He is dressed as usual in a sleeveless dark gray graphic t-shirt and ripped jeans. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms corded with muscle.

Wow.

I stand there in awe, just staring at him. He looks effortlessly handsome, with strands of golden hair falling across his forehead, slightly tousled from the heat of the stove. God, he’s so beautiful that at times I find myself wondering if he’s real.

I stand watching him as he moves around the kitchen like a seasoned chef. Each motion seems deliberate, from the precise chop of vegetables to the gentle whisking of sauces.

I wonder if he cooks all his meals. Did he prepare the breakfast and lunch I didn’t get to eat because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself today?

Shaw’s rough hands move with surprising gentleness as they divide the pasta evenly between two white ceramic plates. There is a tenderness in the way he cooks. It’s a tenderness I haven’t seen much since arriving here at the ranch, but I’m glad I get to experience it now, even if he doesn’t know I’m witnessing it.

My heart thuds violently in my chest when my eyes settle on the two plates: spaghetti and meatballs. Could it be a coincidence, or did he remember that it’s my favorite dish? I hope for the latter.

My eyes shift from the food to the man behind the kitchen counter.

Shaw’s gaze meets mine, and my tummy flutters. Gah, those eyes—those whiskey eyes undo me.

He dips his chin. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

With a quick nod, I reply, “Yes.”

The aroma of the meal wafts through the air, enveloping me in a comforting embrace as I make my way toward the kitchen table. Shaw’s gaze remains fixed on me, his expression unreadable, yet there is a sense of softness to him that wasn’t there before. He then picks up the two plates and motions for me to take a seat at the table.

I move toward the table and take a seat, quietly observing him. Shaw reaches the table and gently places the plates down with a soft clink, arranging them with care. The ceiling lights cast a warm glow over the scene, illuminating Shaw’s features in a soft, ethereal light.

How can one man be both this beautiful and rugged at the same time? I have no idea.

“Spaghetti and meatballs?” I ask, feeling vulnerable yet incredibly happy at this moment.

Shaw on the other hand places a basket of garlic bread in the center and then goes to fill the glass next to my plate with fruit punch. I melt at that. He remembered. This isn’t a coincidence. Spaghetti and meatballs are a common household dish, but serving it to me with a glass of fruit punch like Daddy used to do when I was small… he remembered.

Shaw clears his throat and takes a seat. “I hope you still like it.”

I can’t contain the small smile that appears on my face as soon as his sweet words fall from his lips. It takes every bit of my control to hold back on the million things I want to tell him, so I bite my lip and take a sip of juice to cover the full-blown smile. Then I suck in a breath and push down the sudden swarm of fluttering nerves in my stomach.

Is he mad? Why is he doing this? Why would he leave me flowers and a note to find?

So many questions…

As we both sit in silence, my traitor stomach growls in protest, an obvious sign of hunger. I blush, hoping he hasn’t heard, but the slight curve of his lips reveals otherwise. Shaw’s eyes twinkle with amusement, a silent acknowledgment that he heard. “Dig in,” he says, his gaze drifting to my plate. “You should eat,” he urges softly, his voice cold yet tinged with what I think might be concern. But that couldn’t be true, could it?

“Thank you,” I say, picking up my spoon and fork. Yes, I eat my spaghetti and meatballs with a spoon and fork. Mom would have a coronary if I didn’t.

My not-so-grumpy-today bodyguard takes a bite of his food while his eyes remain on me. “For?”

I hold his gaze, feeling the nerves slowly fading away.

“For this Sunday dinner,” I say.

His eyes soften just a little before he takes a sip of his beer but says nothing.

But that’s the thing about Shaw Banning: he’s not a man of many words, and yet I find no issue with it. I don’t need his words. I am perfectly content sharing his silence.

And that’s what we do.

We sit in silence, sharing a nice dinner that he made for me. For me…