He ducks his head.
I run my fingers through his hair. “And you’re not my second choice. I’m not waiting for anyone better to come along.”
His chin lifts.
Suddenly terrified, I bob my head once to underscore what I’ve said.
His eyes soften. “Aw, Maura.” He parts my lips with his.
“Now, you taste like chocolate,” I say after a few languid seconds.
He lifts me from the counter and carries me from the kitchen. “You taste like heaven.”
Twenty-Four
Chief AND Chef
Three weeks later, Jet invites me over for dinner. Because of his training schedule, we haven’t seen each other for days, which is just as well, because one of those days coincided with Arnold’s spring job fair, and I was busy with setup, execution, and tear-down. We’ve both had exhausting weeks, so I’m surprised when I arrive to find Jet in the kitchen, cooking.
“Where’s Beau?” I ask him after a lazy hello kiss.
“Not here,” he answers with a wink. “Why? Do you need to talk to him about something? Exchange recipes? Ask him his opinion on gluten?”
“No, I—” Torzi trots into the room and stretches himself to his full length along my leg, nudging at my knee with his cold nose. I scratch absently at his furry mop of a head. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
Jet grins. “I can’t.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t look so scared. My mom walked me through it. She promised I couldn’t screw it up.”
He dumps the boiling pasta into a colander in the sink, then gives the strainer a firm shake. I admire the muscles in his forearms, sticking out from the rolled-up sleeves of his light purple dress shirt. Based on the shirt and his dark dress pants, belt, and shoes, he hasn’t been home for long, although I don’t remember him mentioning any meetings after practice, especially none that required dressing up.
“You look nice,” I say, fishing for information.
“Thanks,” After dumping the drained pasta back in the pot, he blots sweat from his forehead with the towel draped over his shoulder.
Okay, then. Must not be that exciting.
“So, what is this foolproof dish you’ve prepared so lovingly for me?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs.”
I suck my upper lip into my mouth and bite down on it.
He laughs. “Okay, it’s something a third-grader can probably make, but I never learned to cook. Never had to. I made the meatballs from scratch, using Mom’s recipe, so it’s not like I tossed a jar of store-bought sauce in a pan and called it good.”
Putting up my hands in a soothing gesture, I say, “I’m not judging.” I glance into the dining room and emit a low whistle at the sight of the crystal, silver, and china sparkling in the candlelight. “You went all out in there!”
His ears redden. “I thought you deserved a little extra effort tonight. I haven’t been very attentive lately.”
“I’ve been too busy—and tired—to care.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.” He removes the large pot of bubbling red sauce from the gas range and sets it on a hot pad on the counter. “Why don’t you take off your shoes and relax at the table while I fix our plates in here? The wine’s already been poured.”
“If you’re sure you don’t need help…”
“Nah. I’ve got it. I think. Probably. I’ll be less nervous if you’re not watching me.”
I laugh at his self-consciousness, the likes of which I haven’t seen since those heady days after our first date. “Okay. Call me if you need me.”
With Torzi on my heels, I walk into the dining room and take the seat obviously intended for me, with the long-stem red rose strategically straddling the pewter charger. “Ooh, là là.” Torzi jumps onto the chair next to me and sits primly as if awaiting his own service. I kick off my shoes under the table and hold the flower to my nose.
Hm. Smells like a rose.
I twitch my schnoz, then offer the bloom to the dog for his own inspection. He sniffs and sneezes.
“Pretty much,” I say, setting the flower on the table, out of the way. “It’s the romantic thought that counts, though, right?”
“Are you guys talking about me in there?” Jet calls from the kitchen.
“Nope. Just taking time to smell the rose.”
He enters the room with plates lined on his arms, like a seasoned waiter. I hop up to help him set everything on the table.
“Wow. That’s a ton of food.”
“You don’t have to eat it all. I think my mom’s recipe feeds twenty.”
Or his two brothers.
I filter at the last second and retake my seat, inhaling the fragrant steam coming from the pile of pasta, sauce, and meat in my shallow bowl. Jet places a small plate of salad next to each of our bowls and a basket of Italian bread chunks in the middle of the table, next to the butter dish, then stands back.
“I think that’s it,” he says but remains standing next to the chair at the head of the table, catty-corner from mine.
I wait while he shifts from foot-to-foot. He leans over and spins the bread basket a quarter turn.
Keeping my eyes on him while unfurling my napkin in my lap, I ask, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he answers distractedly, still focused on the bread. “I want it to be perfect, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m starving and tired, so it doesn’t need to be perfect.”
He finally lowers himself into his chair, but he steeples his hands over his bowl and stares at me.
“Umm,” I say. “Am I supposed to say something?”
He nods at my food. “Take a bite and tell me what you think.”
I’m afraid; very afraid. It smells good enough, but what if it’s awful? What if it’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted? I stare down the giant meatball in the center of my mountain of spaghetti noodles and swallow tightly. “Uh, okay.
