“Okay, Ezra.”
I painted that night. Cloudy skies with sun crowned horizons. Eyes that were deep and mysterious and soft. A delicate hand cradled in a strong, masculine one. All things that would have previously made me roll my eyes and embitter my cold, cruel, cynical heart.
Now I was halfway to infatuated and my painting was evidence that I’d lost my mind completely.
And maybe, possibly… my heart.
Chapter Twenty
Sunday night came too quickly. One second I’d been dodging Henry at work and spending all of Saturday working on Bianca’s mural. The next, I had done my hair like whoa, spent thirty minutes picking out the right lip stain, and dressed in my new distressed skinny jeans and sheer, lacy black tunic with strappy cami underneath.
My outfit sounded casual, but it had taken me the entire week to pick it out. Ugh. Why wasn’t the not-showered-ratty-pajama look in?
Society was the worst.
Feminists unite!
Also, lazy people.
I would also take homebodies.
Now I stood at my stove, slaving away over spaghetti and meatballs and panicking because Ezra was going to be here any minute. And I knew I had gotten myself into this mess, that it had been my stupid idea, but now that the time was almost here to push Ezra away with my terrible cooking, I found that I didn’t want him to know I couldn’t handle myself in the kitchen.
Like at all.
I’d even tried tonight!
Spaghetti and meatballs was something I could usually throw together. I mean, how hard was it to boil water and pour a jar of sauce into a pan? Not hard. Not hard at all.
But I’d taken so long to get ready that I’d gotten a late start on the meatballs. In order to cook them quicker so they could have time to marinate in the marinara I’d bought, I had turned the heat up too high and burned the shit out of them. The onions I’d tried to sauté with them looked like slimy black slugs. I had been under the impression that if I kept cooking the onions they would caramelize. But that theory had been so very wrong.
I was pretty sure they were going to taste like an old cigarette. But I didn’t have time to start over.
They were currently simmering in marinara sauce while I prayed that the tomatoes would hide how blackened and unappetizing they were. Not to mention the charcoal lumps meatballs. They were in no better shape. I’d slammed a lid on the pan so I didn’t have to look at it. Also, to protect my outfit from the spitting red sauce.
It was probably poisonous by now anyway.
Or nuclear.
To add to the chaos, my noodles stuck to the bottom of their pot and I’d over-dressed the salad. The giant bowl I’d grabbed at the store earlier was approximately one-fourth of the way filled with soggy spring mix.
“I can fix this,” I told my colander, setting it in the sink and preparing it for the noodles I needed to drain in approximately two minutes. I started to hunt for more lettuce in an effort to give the salad volume when a knock sounded on my door.
Ezra. Damn it! Of all the nights to be on time.
I’d texted him earlier today with my apartment number and door code to get in the building. Because apparently, he terrified me in a relationship sense, but I trusted him enough that I didn’t think he was a serial killer.
I spun around, pressing a hand to my forehead and wishing I could make this all just disappear. Was it too much to tell him I had been vandalized? That this was the work of a vindictive neighbor? Don’t start sweating. Don’t start sweating. Whatever you do don’t start sweating!
Oh my god, I’m a disaster.
Finally, I faced the door, still contemplating shutting off all the lights and pretending nobody was home.
My feet betrayed me by walking toward the entryway. My hands joined the mutiny and somehow, despite what my brain was telling them to do, unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door for Ezra.
He stood there waiting patiently in casual, dark wash jeans and a navy-blue oxford with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. There was a bottle of wine in his hand and a half smile on his handsome face.
Be still my heart.
It had only been a little over a week since we’d been together, but the sight of him here, at my apartment, looking like he always did, made my breath catch.
“Hi,” he said.
Hi.
He’d said hi. Not Molly. Not just my name. But hi.
The way he said my name always did funny things to my insides—like turn them into warm honey. But this simple hi was shockingly intimate. It wasn’t bold, familiar or demanding. It was gentle. And tentative. And sexy as hell.
God, this man.
“Hi,” I managed to return breathlessly. “Come on inside?”
He stepped in my apartment and set the wine down on the side table. The door clicked shut behind him, then his mouth found mine without hesitation. I wasn’t even sure how it had happened or when he’d pulled me against him or how I’d gotten pushed against the wall. But there we were, kissing hello in my hallway.
It started slowly as we explored each other again, relearning the touch and taste of each other. He tasted like mint and smelled so very good. I couldn’t get enough of him or this kiss. I wanted more. Needed more.
Apparently, so did he. Our innocent hello kiss quickly turned into a building appetite for each other. His mouth was addicting, and the way it moved against mine made my toes curl and my belly heat. My hands landed on his broad shoulders while his wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him. I willingly went, letting my chest press against his, enjoying every inch of his hard, toned body and the way he bent down to meet my mouth.
His tongue brushed over my bottom lip and I opened my mouth, letting him deepen the kiss. My teeth grazed his bottom lip, knowing it would drive him crazy. I was inordinately pleased when it did. He groaned in the back of his throat, making a sound that I felt all the way to my core.
His hands splayed over my ribs, his thumbs resting just beneath my bra. He moved his kisses to the line of my jaw, trailing down my throat. I lost the ability to think when he kissed me like this…to remember all the reasons I had been afraid of seeing him again. We were nothing but lips and tongues and teeth. And as his hands got braver and braver, I thought I would explode with anticipation.
“It’s a good thing we decided to have dinner here,” he murmured against my skin.
Reality crashed over me like ice cold water, releasing me from the spell his mouth had cast. “Dinner!” I pushed him away and sprinted to the kitchen, readying myself for the horror that awaited me. “Oh no!” My noodles bubbled over, splashing big drops of water all over the burner. The sauce hissed angrily and I realized I had forgotten to turn it down. “Oh no!” I repeated when I remembered the garlic bread in the oven. Not wasting time with pot holders, I dove for it, retrieving a dark brown, oblong rock instead of bread.