He gets out a cutting board and grabs a knife. “Come and sit by me while I cook. You’re too far away.”
I push up off of the sofa and sit on one of the stools at the island. He quickly puts on a pot of water before dicing an onion and some garlic and throwing them into a sizzling fry pan. Then he chops some bacon and throws it in as well. A blast of mouthwatering aroma hits me.
“God, that smells good.”
He flashes me a smile and keeps going. He looks so sure of himself in the kitchen, it’s just adding to my attraction to him—the last thing I need.
“Your mom teach you how to cook?” I ask.
He nods. “She started teaching me and my brother when we were little. The first thing we learned was scrambled eggs. Mom showed us how to gently crack the eggs, but Jamie and I were only about five so we didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘gentle.’ ” He laughs and shakes his head. “There was so much eggshell in that first batch, it was crunchy as hell. But Mom smiled and ate it anyway. Said it was the best eggs she ever had.”
For a moment, sadness crosses his features. Then, it’s gone, and he puts some diced tomatoes into the fry pan before adding all sorts of herbs. “What about you? Do you cook?”
I nod. “My mom passed along her love for cooking to Ethan and me. From the age of ten, we each had to cook one family meal a week. Of course, the first thing I learned to make was mac and cheese.”
He looks up from the fry pan. “Of course. Not normal cheese, though, right?”
I scoff. “As if. My first attempt included Castello White and buffalo mozzarella. It was heaven, even if I do say so myself.”
“I love mac and cheese. Promise you’ll make it for me one night?”
I want to remind him that making each other dinner is stepping over all sorts of lines, but his face is so hopeful, I knock it back to a simple “Maybe.”
He throws some pasta into the boiling pot along with a decent pinch of salt. “Angel can’t cook at all. She loves gourmet food, but has no idea how it’s made. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up in a house with a nanny, a chef, and a housekeeper.”
At Angel’s name, I tense up. With everything falling back into such a comfortable routine with Liam, it’s easy to forget we now live in completely different worlds.
If he notices, it doesn’t show. He nods toward the cheese on the bench. “Want to grate some of that for me? Grater’s in the drawer, bowl is in the cabinet behind me.”
I hop up and do as I’m asked. When I’ve grated a decent amount, I place it next to him and glance over his shoulder into the simmering pan. “The sauce looks amazing.”
He stirs it once more before scooping up a little with the wooden spoon and blowing on it. “Here. Taste.” He holds his hand under it and moves it toward my mouth. Without even thinking about the intimacy of the action, I close my mouth around the spoon. I immediately freeze, and when I look up, Liam’s staring.
I lick my lips and swallow, feeling more than a little self-conscious. “Delicious.”
His gaze travels up to my eyes and then back down to my mouth. “Uh-huh. Is there . . . uh . . . enough salt?”
“Yep. Perfect.” After a couple more seconds of pinning me in place with his gaze, he turns back to the sauce. I sigh in relief and head back to the safety zone on the other side of the island. My entire body is buzzing. I wonder if he affects all women the same way. Does Angel feel like this? Like he’s a bolt of lightning in human form, charging the air around him?
I sip my beer, and we lapse into silence as he finishes the dish. When he places a steaming bowl in front of me, topped with a generous serving of Parmesan, my mouth waters like crazy.
“Thank you.”
“As usual with you, Elissa Holt,” he says with a mischievous smile, “the pleasure is all mine. Bon appetit.”
He sits next to me as we eat. It’s both comfortable and tense, and I’m realizing that’s kind of normal for us.
“So,” I say. “You seeing your mom and dad while you’re in town?”
He shakes his head. “I bought them a round-the-world trip ages ago, and didn’t realize it coincided with my stay. They’re traveling for the next two months. Hopefully I’ll get to see them before I head back to L.A. If the show lasts that long.”
I finish my last bite and wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Oh, it’ll last. Don’t worry. Parmesan and truffle onstage every night? Audiences will eat it up.”
He laughs, then takes our empty bowls over to the sink. “Well, that’s encouraging.” He grabs two more beers out of the fridge and passes me one. When we head back over to the couch, I wince as I sit.
He looks at me with concern. “Hip still sore?”
“Only a little. My bruise, however, could win awards. It’s kind of cool, in a gross, blood-filled way.”
He lays his arm along the back of the couch. “Can I see?”
“My bruise?”
He nods. “Purely for medical purposes. Sometimes a severe contusion can cause vascular issues. Better let me run my expert eyes over it, just to be sure.”