Page 8 of Summer Heat
The moment she agreed, the wariness in his expression softened a little. “Let’s go find out what Helen left us.”
A little while later, he was heating up spaghetti and meatballs on the stove. “My favorite meal,” he muttered, as if not wanting to admit to such a tiny personal detail.
“My sister and I used to make spaghetti for dinner. When my mother was too sick to make it downstairs and cook.” She retrieved the plates he’d taken out of the cabinet and brought them over to the stove so he could serve the food.
“What was wrong with her?” he asked, deftly placing the pasta on their plates.
“Depression,” she said, having long since come to terms with the word.
Some people considered mental illness a stigma, something to be ashamed of. She thought of it as chronic illness, a burden to bear when it wasn’t controlled, and merely another facet of someone’s life when it was. For her sister, Lexie still had hope.
She didn’t, however, know how Kade viewed things. Not wanting to see judgment in his gaze, she busied herself carrying the plates back to the table.
“I’m sorry. It’s not easy growing up with any kind of issues dragging you down.”
Something about the way he spoke told her not only didn’t he judge, he might actually understand.
She raised a shoulder. “It wasn’t. It isn’t. But when someone is ill, you learn to put them first, no matter what else is going on in life,” she said, knowing she was talking about more than her mother. But he didn’t need to hear about her sister too.
She picked up the fork and began twirling the long strands.
“I admire that,” he said, taking her by surprise.
She swallowed hard, caught up with emotion. “Thank you.”
“Not many women—I mean people—would be so selfless.”
She glanced away. “Well, I’m not an angel.” She lifted the pasta toward her mouth, realizing there were still long pieces attached to the ones on her plate.
She lowered the utensil, shook her head, and began to laugh, breaking the tension between them.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Spaghetti is, hands down, the worst date food on the planet. Not that we’re on a date,” she rushed to correct herself. He was her boss, and though he’d said he wanted to get to know her better, he hadn’t elaborated.
And she shouldn’t presume. “I mean…”
“I know what you mean.” He grinned.
A full-on smile that could only mean he’d dropped his defenses, and it transformed his face. He was sexy at any time, but in this moment, he resembled the young boy in the photo, and she was fully engaged by him.
“Thank you for sharing about your mother,” he said, taking her off guard by returning to their previous conversation.
She nodded. “It’s not easy to talk about things that hurt you.” She deliberately avoided pushing him to open up but hoped he understood she’d listen if he chose to.
“No. But you seem like you’d be a good listener too.”
“I am,” she said and let it go at that.
Silence ticked by, and he stared into her eyes, the emotional tension slowly turning into something different. The kind of undeniable awareness between a man and a woman who were attracted to one another. And she was attracted to this enigmatic man and all his different facets. Especially when he looked at her like he wanted to eat her for dinner. Or dessert.
Feeling breathless, even a little aroused, she did what she could to diffuse the desire arcing between them.
“So how about we dig into this meal and stop worrying about who gets sauce on their face?” she said, giving him an easygoing smile.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said, that sexy gaze never leaving hers. And as a result, she spent the rest of the evening in a heightened state of sexual desire for a man she had to face in the morning.
As her difficult, demanding boss.
