Page 44 of Twisted Temptation

I walk into the kitchen and am met with a disaster.

Open boxes of cannelloni tubes, spice packets, and jars of sauce clutter the counter. In the sink is a stack of unwashed bowls, and a cutting board covered with chopped onion, tomato, and bell peppers.

Through the oven glass door, a baking dish glows, and the whole penthouse smells like garlic, pasta, and tomatoes.

My kitchen has never smelled like anything because I don't cook. When I eat here, it's something delivered or something cold.

"You cooked," I say.

"I did."

"For me?"

"Of course." She glances at me over her shoulder as she rips open a bag of salad. "Why wouldn’t I?"

I lean against the island and fold my arms. "Yesterday you told me you hoped this marriage would make me miserable."

"I did say that."

"And today you're making me dinner."

"I’m not a predictable woman, Dante." She gives me another smile as she tips a bag of lettuce leaves into the salad bowl.

I cock an eyebrow in her direction. “And that is what scares me.”

This woman fought me on every word last night. Every single syllable was a battlefield. Now she's making me cannelloni and saying my name so sweetly that my cock just got a little harder.

What the hell has gotten into her?

The combative Sunny, I can predict.

But this Sunny? The one wearing nothing but my shirt and cooking my dinner, she’s unpredictable, and that is a problem.

She pulls a bottle of wine from the counter and uncorks it with a confidence that suggests she has no idea she's holding a two-thousand-dollar bottle in her hand. She pours two glasses and hands me one.

I look at the glass.

She raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"I didn't say anything."

"You're looking at the wine like it might kill you."

"The thought had crossed my mind."

She arches an eyebrow. "You think I poisoned the wine?"

"I think you spent last night telling me you'd make my life difficult, and now you're serving me a home-cooked meal with a two-thousand-dollar bottle of wine. Things don’t quite add up."

“Two thousand…” She holds up the bottle to look at the label. “That is insane. Who pays two thousand dollars for a bottle of wine?”

“The same man who paid sixty-nine for one.”

She gives me a pointed look. “You paid sixty-nine thousand for a bottle of wine?”

“I did.”

“Why?”