Just Add Spice

She let out a small whimper. “My favorite.”

“Or let you go to the hotel without me saying a word.”

Jenna eyed him a moment. “The latter is hardly your style.”

“Yeah, well, Aunt Vesta felt compelled to tell me my style doesn’t compute. Not when it comes to you, at any rate.”

“Rafe.” She groaned. “I know I’ve stirred up all sorts of speculation and nostalgia with my visit, and I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” he quickly interjected. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. Ever.”

She continued to stare at him, seeing myriad emotions in his glowing blue eyes. Causing her to say, “I had no intention of making this harder on you. I wasn’t thinking about how my return would impact you when it comes to expectations. I just wanted to lend a hand, Rafe. And to see you again.”

He nodded. “Trust me, I’m glad you’re here. Don’t think twice about that, Jen.”

She smiled. “Well. The restaurant’s not opened this late at the Fairmont, so I guess it’s room service for me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned to go, but only made it halfway across the dining room when she whirled back around, something intuitive urging her to do so. “Unless…”

He grinned and a hint of relief flashed in his eyes. “Linguine alla vongole it is.”

“No one makes it better than you.” She smiled. “I’m a sucker for your food. And your smirk.”

He gave her one. Then he said, “I’m a sucker for everything about you.”

Her teeth clamped down briefly on her lower lip. “I don’t want to convolute things between us. Make them worse.”

“I’ll try not to read too much into it.”

“That’s not really—” She shook her head. Swallowed a lump of emotion. “Okay.”

“Besides,” he said in a lighter tone, as though trying to cut some of their tension, “I bet you won’t get a foot massage this late at the Fairmont, either.”

“Not without a hefty up-charge. And it wouldn’t be nearly as heavenly as yours.”

“I’ll lock up and we can meet at the loft.”

She only had to wait a few minutes for him at his front door, having mailed back her key when she’d returned the divorce papers. He let them into the building and she shook out her umbrella before he helped her out of her overcoat. He hung it on the rack, along with his black leather jacket.

They climbed the stairs to the second level. Rafe’s loft was expansive and airy. A wall of windows showcased the radiance of North Beach, the Wharf beyond and Alcatraz Island in the distance. Fat drops rolled down the glass panes from a light storm. The living room boasted leather sofas in a rich sienna color. Rafe flipped the switch for the gas fireplace.

Jenna said, “I’ll pour the wine. Pinot Gris?”

“I’ve got a couple bottles of the brand you like in the wine cooler.”

“Perfect.”

She crossed to the wet bar and retrieved a bottle from the tall, slim chiller. She poured two glasses and followed Rafe as he moved toward the kitchen.

Spying the old-fashioned, hand-crank pasta maker sitting on the granite-topped island, she laughed. “You still use that thing? You can buy an electric one, you know?”

“My grandmother gave that to me. There’s something very therapeutic about the hand-crank model.”

“Authentic too,” she admitted.

“As it happens, I made linguine last night.”

“Lucky me. Homemade pasta.”