Page 33 of Stuck Together

“Well if we're having chicken Parmesan, we need a red.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You pour the wine and sit. Talk to me while I cook.”

“I can do that.” I searched the drawers until I found a wine key and grabbed two glasses. My hand slipped several times as I tried to open the bottle. Not because I couldn’t do it, but because I couldn’t keep my eyes on the task at hand. I kept looking toward Logan, watching him work his way around the kitchen. He really did know what he was doing, and it was sexy as hell.

I turned my back to him so I could focus. I popped the cork out and poured two glasses. When I turned to hand him a glass, I caught him looking at me. “Where did you learn to cook?”

He took the glass I offered him, and his fingers brushed over mine causing me to suck in a breath.

“After Kimberly left, I took a few cooking classes and watched a lot of the Food Network. I had a child to take care of and figured it was a skill I’d need for her.”

“You learned for her?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t feed her nothing but takeout.” He turned back to the chicken to trim it up. “As it turns out, Rylee loves to cook too. We have a lot of fun together in the kitchen. She prefers to bake, which I don’t mind. We always have fresh baked cookies in the house.”

That had to be the most adorable and sexy thing I’d ever heard a man say. If he kept this up, I’d lose myself to him before dinner was served.Dammit, I’m such a contradiction. Why couldn’t I just stick to my guns where he was concerned? “That’s actually really sweet.”

He tossed me a panty-dropping smile. “We have fun. Rylee makes a huge mess, but it’s amazing how well she does for a six-year hold. She like a prodigy in the kitchen.”

“I'm sure you help make that mess. I recall quite the mess in that kitchen before you tried to burn it down.”

“Oh, God. The mess was almost worse than the fire.”

“You insisted on making me chocolate chip cookies. It was like the flower exploded in the kitchen.”

“And then we burned the cookies.” He laughed.

“You mean, you burned the cookies. You're the one who didn’t set the timer.”

“Yeah, well, I was eleven. I had no clue what I was doing.” He really didn’t. But he’d insisted cookies would cheer me up. I had been upset about something, I don’t remember what anymore, and he’d said cookies would make me smile.

“Your grandmother was so upset with us. It was the only time I ever thought she might actually beat us.”

“She lectured me for weeks after that. She still brings it up when she feels the need to remind me I was a little hellion as kid.”

“Well, here's hoping your cooking skills have improved. I really do love chicken Parmesan and it’d be a shame if you burned it up.”

He looked up at me with a heated glare. “Don't worry. I won't burn dinner.” His voice was husky and said so much more than the words he spoke.

I swallowed hard and took a sip of my wine. He turned back to the stove and started to sauté the chicken. Watching him cook was too much and I needed to do something to keep my hands busy before I ended up behind him with arms wrapped around his chest.

Instead, I headed to the cabinets and pulled out a couple plates. “I’ll get the table set.”

I caught the slight tilt of his head, but he didn’t say anything. Did he feel the tension building between us? I was about to combust with desire and if something didn’t release some of the tension soon, I’d lose control and jump in his arms.

Standing at the dining room table, I started to place our plates at opposite ends then decided against it. Instead, I set a place at the head of the table and one to the side. There was no need to keep this distance between us. We're friends. We can sit next to each other. And maybe, just maybe, we could be more than friends someday.

Did I want that? The idea of more came to me so easily. I couldn’t keep playing this game of tug-of-war with him. It wasn’t fair to either of us.

He looked over at me and smiled when he saw how I was setting at the table. His smile released a swarm of butterflies loose in my stomach.Oh, this man.

“How long before dinner is served,” I asked.

“Maybe twenty minutes.”