Fall to You (Here and Now 2)

“Sorry.” I snatch the shirt from his hand and yank it on over my head. It’s soft blue cotton with a Superman insignia on the chest that stretches across my breasts. Though too snug at the chest, it falls to the tops of my thighs and makes me feel less exposed.

Nate stares at me for minute, running his gaze over me in his T-shirt, my bare legs down to my painted toenails. Finally, he grabs a pair of athletic shorts from his drawer and pulls them on, leaving his chest bare. Despite the awkwardness that hangs around us like a thick fog, and despite the fact that I’m pretty sure my confession put the brakes on tonight’s sexy times, I want to lick him. Right between his toned pecs and over his hard abs. I want to lick those numbers above his left pec and the sword blade up his side.

A moan slips from my lips as I imagine what I’m likely going to be missing out on tonight. Hours in bed with Nate. Exploring his body while he explores mine. His face between my legs, his hands on my breasts…

“Can I just take back what I said just now?” I ask.

“About being a virgin?”

“Yeah. I’d like to rescind that statement.”

He looks so hopeful, his dark eyes softening as they connect with mine. “Because it’s not true?”

“Unfortunately, it’s true. I want to take it back because it changed things between us.”

He tucks my hair behind my ears. “I’m sorry, Hanna. I just…” He shakes his head. “Food. We need food.”

“What?”

“Cooking relaxes me, so I only stay in suites equipped with full kitchens if I can help it.” His bashful grin melts something inside of me. “Will you let me cook for you?”

Not where I expect this night to go, but… “Sure.”

I follow him to the kitchen, a small but lush space with a single-burner gas stove, granite countertops, and a stainless-steel fridge. I wonder what “cooking” means to a celebrity like Nate Crane. More than throwing a pizza in the oven, sure, but can he really cook? To me, cooking is about sauces and tender cuts of meat paired with fresh, crisp vegetables. I love cooking in a way my mother could never understand. And even better than cooking—baking. The chemistry of flour and sugar and the perfect hints of flavors melting on the tongue. I was always trying to spend more time in the kitchen, and she was always trying to chase me out of it.

Nate washes his hands in the sink then pulls a sauté pan from the cupboard and sets it on the cold stove. He starts removing items from the refrigerator and placing them on the butcher block—fresh asparagus, bell peppers, thin-sliced chicken breast, strawberries, and heavy whipping cream.

As he starts washing, dicing, and chopping, the surprise must show on my face, because he winks at me. “Did you expect Pop-Tarts?”

I grin. “Maybe. Can I help?”

“You’re the company. Sit and let me take care of you. Here…” He grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours me a glass. Pinot gris. “Drink.”

I pull a stool up next to his butcher block and settle in to watch him work. He has great hands. Nate chopping vegetables, flouring chicken, and drizzling oil in the pan to heat is far sexier than I would have imagined. Then again, it’s a beautiful man cooking. What’s not to love?

“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask.

His lips quirk in a lopsided grin. “Here and there. Mom was always off on some movie set, and my dad, well…” He shakes his head. “I was close to our housekeeper. She let me help her in the kitchen, taught me to cook.”

“Your mom’s an actress?”

He nods. “Film and TV. Family curse, and I count my blessings to have escaped it.”

“Where was your dad?”

He shrugs. “Busy.” He exhales, and his shoulders drop as if he released his frustrations with the breath. “So I learned to cook young, and I liked it. I started watching cooking shows and shit. Just getting ideas.”

He places the flour-dredged chicken into the sizzling oil and gets to work washing strawberries and removing their stems.

“I love cooking,” I confess. “Well, baking, really. I always dreamed of opening my own bakery. I love making my friends cakes for special occasions, and I can just picture a little bakery on the main strip at home.”

He lifts his head and grins at me. “Why can I imagine you as a child, baking cookies with your mom?”

“Hardly.” I sigh and roll back my shoulders. “No, Mom doesn’t bake. In fact, she pretty much hates any food that tastes good. And it always seemed like the more my mom tried to teach me that food was the enemy, the more I loved it.”

“Food is life.” He grabs a freshly rinsed strawberry from the bowl and offers it to me.

I open my mouth, and he places it between my lips for a bite. Sweetness explodes on my tongue, and I close my eyes.