Page 32 of The Mountain Man's Mail-Order Mafia Princess

The pieces were even.

I folded my arms. “That’s annoyingly competent.”

“I’ve fed myself for fifteen years.”

“Feeding yourself and cooking aren’t always the same thing.”

“What did you eat before you came here?”

“Food prepared by people who respected garlic.”

Jonah slid the chopped onion toward me. “Your grandmother taught you?”

“She believed a woman should know how to feed herself even if she never had to.”

“That sounds sensible.”

“She’d be furious you reduced her philosophy to that word.”

“What word should I use?”

“Wise. Generous. Visionary.”

“She taught you to make sauce.”

“She taught me not to depend on anyone else for dinner.”

Jonah’s hand stilled beside the cutting board.

I poured oil into the pan.

“That was a general principle,” I said.

“I didn’t ask.”

“No, but your face did.”

“That’s your line.”

“I’m reclaiming it.”

He handed me the garlic.

We cooked in the narrow space, though avoiding Jonah required more attention than the food. He drained the beef while I stirred the onions and garlic. I crushed the tomatoes into the pot, added herbs, and tasted the sauce.

He stood close enough that the heat from his body reached my bare shoulder.

“Try it,” I said.

I held out the spoon.

Jonah leaned down and tasted the sauce without taking it from me.

His mouth closed around the edge.

My nipples tightened beneath the tank.

He swallowed. “It’s good.”