Page 168 of King of Pain

“Jeez,” she says, eyes flicking between us. “The satisfaction. I can see it all over your face. Or at least,” she lifts a brow at me, “it was all over your face five minutes before I got here.” She winks and pretends to wipe something from the corner of her mouth.

Ant groans. “Lexi.”

I mutter, “Jesus.”

Ant starts fiddling with his phone, clearly trying not to make eye contact with her. She spends the next few minutes catching up with me, not missing any opportunities to throw in an innuendo, while Ant continues to scroll on his phone.

When she finally starts to wrap up her whirlwind of sass and affection, Ant clears his throat and says, “Hey, I’m cooking tonight, Lex. You wanna stay?”

Lexi gasps, then pouts dramatically. “Damn you. I’d kill for one of your meals, but Beau has a fundraiser he’s dragging us to tonight. Rain check?”

Ant nods. “Of course.”

“Good,” I say, already herding her toward the door. “Because I think we’ve had our fill of besties busting our balls for one day.”

Without missing a beat, Ant chirps, “Yeah, don’t bust his balls, Lexi. I have plans for those.”

Lexi opens the door and throws a look over her shoulder. “On that note, I’m outta here.”

We both laugh as I shut—and lock—the door behind her.

“You’re making dinner?” I ask, brows lifted. “I don’t have anything in the fridge.”

Ant laughs. “I knew that without even looking. I ordered some groceries—they’ll be here in an hour.”

I shoot him a crooked grin. “An hour, huh? Race you to the shower?”

The groceries arrive shortly after I thoroughly drain Ant’s balls in the shower. I help unload the bags while he gives Little G some well-deserved attention. As I start unpacking, I smile when I see he ordered a small bag of dog food—along with breakfast staples and a few late-night snack items he knows damn well are my favorites. My heart clenches in the best way.

“What are you making?” I ask when he comes into the kitchen.

He pulls herbs out of one of the bags I haven’t unloaded yet and starts setting up at the counter. “Well, I had an idea for a pasta. I’ve never made it before, so hopefully it turns out okay.”

I scoff. “I don’t think you’re capable of making anything that doesn’t taste good.”

He hits me with a sweet smile and gets to work.

I sit on a stool at the edge of the kitchen island and watch him, arms folded, completely transfixed. He starts by whipping ricotta cheese with fresh herbs and a little lemon zest, folding it gently until it’s fluffy.

After cooking a pound of spaghetti noodles, he tosses pancetta into a pan, the sizzle echoing through the kitchen as it crisps. He adds chopped Calabrian chilis, letting the oil turn a vibrant red before he drops the cooked spaghetti into the mix and stirs in the ricotta mixture.

Then he ladles some of the pasta water in and tosses until the noodles are coated in a creamy, spicy tangle of perfection. He plates it and finishes with shaved parmesan and another hit of zest on top.

“Jesus,” I whisper. “And you thinkI’man artist?”

Ant smiles, then hums. “Thanks. I do love cooking on a gas stove.” He sighs contentedly, dragging a fingertip along the edge of the burner. “When my lease is up in two months, I’m definitely finding a place with one.”

I hum back, a little too loud. My stomach drops, but I try to hide it.

He searches my expression, brow furrowed. “What’s that look for?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. It’s just nice to see you in your element again.”

What I’m really thinking is—I want him in his element here. In this kitchen. In my bed. Our kitchen. Our bed. Every day.

Forever.

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