Page 61 of Rising Heat
Tyler just smiles and ducks his head as he steps inside, his clean warm scent hitting me. He sets the stock pot carefully on the counter, then holds up the bottle of wine like supporting evidence.
“I made enough pasta to feed a small army,” he says. “Mack’s over at the station for a few hours helping Marco with something.”
I lean against the counter.
“You cooked?”
He looks personally offended.
“Don’t insult me.”
“I barely know you. You could be lying.”
Tyler twists the cap off the wine and reaches for two glasses like he’s been here before.
“You think I’d show up with a stock pot and cheap Sauvignon just to scam you? What kind of guy do you take me for?”
“You tell me.”
“Guy who learned from his grandmother.”
He says it casually, reaching for the cabinet above my sink.
“Left side?”
I nod.
“Your grandma taught you to cook?”
“Nonna would’ve considered it a failure if any of her grandkids made it to adulthood unable to feed themselves.”
I laugh.
“Was she a good cook?”
Tyler pauses halfway through pulling out a bowl and gives me a look.
“Darcy.”
“Right. Stupid question.”
“She once made enough lasagna for a wake, a christening, and Sunday dinner in the same weekend.”
“Did everybody cook?”
“Pretty much.” He sets the bowls on the counter. “Mom’s side always treated feeding people like a competitive sport.”
“That explains the stock pot.”
I smile while he finishes scooping pasta into the bowls, steam and the smell of shallots and tomatoes filling the apartment.
“What about you? You cook?”
“Yeah.”
Tyler looks surprised at that.
“Yeah?”
