Page 70 of Boyfriend of the Hour

I dished up three, then scooped some of the carrots I’d baked onto each plate and grated Parmesan over them and the pasta, ignoring when some fell on the floor. I’d get it later.

With one finger, I scooped up an errant bit of sauce on the edge of my plate and sucked it off. Then I looked up to find Nathan staring again, this time at my finger as I pulled it out of my mouth.

Shit. Talk about bad manners.

“Er, sorry,” I mumbled. “Hey, go wash up. I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

He started again but followed my orders without a word, mumbling something that sounded like, “Stop acting like an idiot.”

I couldn’t deny it hurt a little. But it was a fair critique.

When we met in the dining room, Nathan’s face was red and slightly damp, like he’d washed it along with his hands. He offered a short nod as he took his seat at the table, which I’d set with napkins, silverware, and even a candle for good measure.

“Grace?” I asked, holding out my hand.

He took it but looked surprised. “I didn’t realize you were religious.”

I shrugged. “I’m not, really. But it’s not a home-cooked meal if you don’t say grace. Trust me, my nonna would approve.” Quickly, I bowed my head to murmur the short prayer I’d heard literally every night of my life: “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

When I looked up, Nathan was still watching me, but now with a warmth I hadn’t seen before. Something like fondness.

“Just a habit,” I said, feeling oddly shy myself now.

God, he probably thought I was a baby. Saying my prayers like a little kid. I couldn’t explain why I’d done it. It just felt right.

A brown brow lifted. “Next time, I’ll join you.”

I grinned. And to my shock, Nathan grinned right back.

“Buon appetito,” I said in my admittedly poor Italian. If I was going to channel Nonna, I figured I should do it right. Or as right as I could manage.

“It’s—” he stopped.

“What?” I asked.

He looked down at the steaming plate in front of him. “It’s been a very long time since someone made me dinner. Thank you.”

I poured some of his favorite sparkling water—he liked the expensive stuff that came in green bottles—into the wineglasses I’d set out. “It’s nothing fancy. Just spaghetti and meatballs with roasted carrots. I did sparkling water since you don’t keep any wine in the house.”

“Hypertension runs in my family,” Nathan said as he accepted the glass. “I don’t actually drink very much.”

“I know. You barely touch your scotch at the bar.”

At that, he frowned just as he was about to dip his fork into his food. “Then why do you bring it?”

I shrugged. “Because you always order it. Whydoyou always order it?”

Nathan shrugged back. “It just seems like what people do.”

I nodded. “I get that.”

And the weird thing was, I did. Sometimes I felt like life was a choice between acting like myself and pissing everyone off or doing what they wanted and feeling like an empty mask. In his own way, I had a feeling that Nathan felt the same.

“I’ll make you something without alcohol next time,” I said. “Perrier. I think we have it.”

“With lime,” Nathan said as that half smile emerged again. “Please.”

We shared small, hidden smiles before we both had to look away. Why, I wasn’t sure. But it was almost too much to handle.