Page 69 of Boyfriend of the Hour

And now all I saw was the mountain of things to clean up.

I swallowed. “Nathan?”

He finally looked back at me. And maybe a little bit of tension fell from his big shoulders. A little.

“It’s just a thank you for taking me in,” I said as I gave the sauce another good stir. “I noticed that most of your meals come from that service, but, come on, that’s never as good as anything home cooked, am I right? It’s giving lonely bachelor. I thought you might enjoy a change.”

I was babbling, yes. Filling the space because he still hadn’t said anything else.

At least he wasn’t staring at the mess anymore. Now, he was just staring at me. Was I wearing something inappropriate? I glanced down at one of my favorite “at home” outfits: baggy black pants tied loosely around my hips and a vintage Lisa Frank T-shirt cropped above my navel. A couple of chains around my neck, a pair of black hoops, and some beaded bracelets around one wrist.

I’m all right there, I thought. He’d seen way more of me when I was dancing.

Maybe he was staring because I was almost as messy as the kitchen. My shirt was speckled with sauce, along with some water stains that wet the hem.

“You…have a bit of sauce…” Nathan stuttered as he pointed to my neck.

I turned in a circle but obviously couldn’t locate something on my neck.

“Get it, will you?” I asked, skipping over to him with the sauce spoon in one hand and a dishrag in the other.

Nathan glanced around the room like someone was going to save him from the task. Eventually, though, he took the rag from my hand and tentatively dabbed it on my neck, just above my collarbone, then drew the wet cloth up to my jaw. His fingers lingered there for a moment, and he seemed transfixed by the spot.

I shivered when his knuckle brushed the sensitive skin under my chin.

“Thanks,” I murmured, suddenly aware of his characteristically clean scent, now overlaid with a bit of sweat from his workout. Damn, he smelled good. It was all I could do not to lick him in exactly the same spot where he’d just touched me.

I wondered if it would taste like salt.

He still didn’t speak.

God, he was so horrified he’d completely lost the ability.

I turned away and grabbed the two pasta bowls I’d set out to serve things up, conscious of the fact that Nathan still hadn’t stopped staring.

Something was definitely wrong. In about five seconds, he was going to return to earth and kick me out for causing such mayhem. He was going to look around at what I’d done to his kitchen, possibly his whole apartment, and tell me the deal was off and he’d be better off learning social skills from the silent dude in the elevator.

The only way to fix it was to feed him. Nonna’s sauce could fix anything.

“I really am sorry about the mess,” I said as I started dishing up pasta, that admittedly looked kind of like overcooked glue, into the bowls.

“The mess?” When I turned around, Nathan blinked, then shook his head like he was falling out of a daydream. “I don’t care about the mess. It’s—Rita will clean it up when she comes in the morning.”

I frowned at the mention of the housekeeper, who seemed to come and go from the apartment like a phantom, usually during the time I was asleep or at work. “No, don’t make her do that. I’ll take care of it.”

Nathan looked unsure. But it was one thing to pay a housekeeper to do regular dusting and cleaning when the apartment was picked up. He couldn’t know how it felt to be taken advantage of that way, but I did. And so did every other woman in my family.

“I’ll do it,” I said again as I spooned some of the sauce over each bowl. “How many meatballs?”

I bent down to remove a tray of meatballs from the oven. Okay, maybe they weren’t quite as juicy as Nonna’s usually looked, but they didn’t smell awful. I bet they were all right.

Nathan eyed them suspiciously when I set them on the island next to the bowls. “Ah, two is fine.”

“Are you sure?” I asked as I gave myself the same. “My dance instructor always told me to eat extra protein when we were building muscle. Did you lift or run today?”

Last night, Nathan had randomly told me his workout schedule, but I couldn’t remember the order of things. Just that it was three days of sprint training followed by calisthenics to protect his joints and three of the heavier strength training that were responsible for his bulk.

Nathan was still studying his bowl. “I lifted.” He looked like he was regretting it. “Three, then.”