Nathan smiles. “His stove privileges were revoked for a couple of months after that, but he was fine with it, because it meant he had an excuse for me and Chase to cook for him,.”
“That sounds like heaven,” I tell him. “I hate cooking, so if someone else was doing it for me, life would be amazing.”
His eyes turn to me and he looks down at me, emotions that I can’t quite read swirling in his eyes. “Well, you know that you can always give me a call.”
My mouth suddenly feels dry as the air is filled with a heaviness that I can’t quite process, but I nod.
Nathan sets the oven and I watch him silently before he moves over to where the spinach is. “Where are your mixing bowls?”
I give him a pointed look. “Did you not see the struggle I had looking for that pot?”
“Ah,” he turns and opens the cabinets until he finds what he’s looking for. “So what have you been cooking if you don’t know where anything is?”
My lips press together at that and I can already feel the look he’s going to give me. “If I’m being honest, I’ve mostly just been buying those little dinners that you throw in the oven at a certain temperature. I stopped trying to do anything fancier when Tanner told me he thought he was going to get food poisoning from the baked chicken I fixed.”
“Poor guy,” he says in sympathy.
“Hey,” I protest. “It’s the thought that matters or some shit like that, right?”
“Of course, babe,” he pauses, seeming as surprised as I am by his words. “Anyway, we need to mix up the meat, the spinach, and cheese.” He glosses over the endearment and I let him, since I don’t have any protest to the word. If anything, it makes me feel warm inside, just like when Chase calls me sweetheart. Emmet has also let the occasional endearment out, usually with one of his soft smiles.
I nod along as Nathan talks and goes through the motions of finding the skillet and putting the meat in it. He starts to season it and after a moment he seems to realize that I’m not actually helping. “The water is boiling now, you can go ahead and drop the shells in it.”
“Okay,” I grab the box of jumbo shells that I’ve never seen before today. I don’t even recall Grandma using these in the kitchen.
I drop them in the water and curse when some water splashes onto my wrist. “Careful there.” Nathan’s hand covers the spot that’s already starting to lessen with pain, but I don’t tell him that, enjoying the feel of his touch on me.
I look up at him, trying to feign innocence. “Maybe I should take a break since I’m injured.”
He laughs before bringing my wrist up to his face and laying a soft kiss on it, his eyes meeting mine as warmth shoots through my body. He brings my wrist back down. “There. Did that make it feel better?”
“I don’t know, I think maybe you should give it a go again, only this time how about my lips? I’m pretty sure I bit down on it hard earlier today.”
“Ivy,” my name on his lips comes out low and sexy and it does nothing to put out the flames building in me. He licks his lips before shaking his head and stepping away as a sexy grin takes over his lips. “We need to hurry up and finish cooking. If we move quickly enough, I may be able to give you that kiss you want after we throw the food in the oven before the guys get back with the kids.”
Nathan and Chase took Lilly to the park to give us time to get the food ready. The thought of being able to get in more alone time with Nathan before they come back has me moving quickly. “What next?” I ask.
Nathan smiles and directs me to stir the pasta. We work together in a good companionable silence as I take care of the pasta and he manages the meat.
“Is it time to drain it?’ I ask, frowning down at the pot.
He drifts toward me and peeps over into the pot. “No, it’s still a little undercooked.”
He turns the fire off from under the meat and moves over to drain it in a strainer he’s already placed in the sink with a bowl under it to catch the grease to make sure it doesn’t clog the sink.
He finds the can opener and opens the chopped spinach before draining the water off of it and dumping it into the mixing bowl. He puts the meat on top of it and starts to stir.
“You’re not stirring if you’re watching me,” he says with a grin, looking up at me.
My face heats slightly. “Well, it’s hard not to watch you, especially when you’re in your element like you are when you cook.” I turn back to the stove and stir the pasta.
He moves over to me and looks at the pot. “Looks good. Do you want me to drain it or do you want to do it.”
“It’s all yours, Chef.” I say, taking a step back. I’ll take any chance that I can to get out of helping cook.
He grabs some pot holders and moves to the sink to drain the pasta. “When I was growing up, a part of me hated how much I loved cooking.”
“Why?” I ask, leaning against the counter, content to just watch him.