Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(59)

My pulse pounds in my ears. What’s he saying? . . . What does it mean?

“I didn’t disapprove of what you did because I thought it was inadequate or wrong,” he goes on. “I thought it was incredible. But I hated that to do your work, you took risks and put yourself in danger. So I focused on what I hated because it made it easier for me to put distance between us, to tell myself I didn’t care what happened to you. But I did care. I buried it while you were gone, then made us both miserable when you were home and I couldn’t escape it.”

I’m speechless as I glance back over my shoulder and find his eyes. God, his eyes. They’re a fire’s flames, rich whiskey warming me from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head.

“You cared?” I ask hoarsely.

Staring down at me, he searches my eyes. “Yes, Kate. I cared. I care. I’ve been shit at showing it, but I have always cared about you.” He swallows roughly. “And admired you.”

My heart skips. “Well . . . if it makes you feel any better, I’ve cared, too.” Oh God, now my heart feels like an elevator plummeting to its doom. Admitting this shit is hard. “And . . . admired you. For a capitalist, at least.”

Christopher’s smile turns so bright, its wattage could power a city block. I turn back toward the counter, smiling, too.

“For a capitalist, huh?” The pleasure in his voice, an edge of almost laughter, makes goose bumps dance across my skin.

I shrug, biting back my smile as it grows.

“Is that a smile I just earned?” Christopher dips his head, nuzzling my shoulder with his chin. It makes a very juvenile noise squeak out of me.

“Christopher.” I nudge him halfheartedly in the stomach with my elbow.

“Katerina,” he says, so close his mouth nearly brushes my neck. A shiver dances down my spine.

“Stop tickling me,” I tell him, forcing my posture to straighten, my voice to steady.

“Fine.” He sighs, tapping the counter. “Now, come on. Everything that’s been upsetting you today, work it out on the pasta dough.”

I hesitate for a moment, then step closer. Slowly, I push up my sleeves higher, before sinking my hands into the eggs. I squeeze as hard as I can, squealing in pleasure at the slimy, runny whites, the satisfying, tactile resistance of the remaining yolks slipping out of my grip.

“Feel good?” he asks.

“Uh, it’s just a sensory delight.” I lift my hands and show him the way I’m savoring the sticky texture of the flour and egg between my fingers. “This is incredible.”

He steps closer behind me and sinks his hands into the flour and eggs again, too.

It feels so good, his body behind mine, his hands and my hands, messy together.

Our hands touch, our bodies brush. I feel his breath, warm and soft on my neck, his eyes on me, watching me as I lose myself in our task, and soon we have a ball of dough. Christopher shows me how to knead it, his hands on mine, folding the dough over itself, pressing it into the counter.

“Still doing okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper, knowing my voice is uneven but helpless to do a damn thing about it. “Very okay.”

Maybe he hears how affected I am. Maybe he’s affected, too. Because he falters with the dough, fumbling it for a moment before smoothly folding it over. Somehow, he suddenly feels closer, but I know he hasn’t moved. I think maybe I have. I think maybe I’ve leaned back into him like I’d sink into a hot, long-awaited bath.

For just a moment, I shut my eyes, luxuriating in the nearness of his body and its heat, the thrill as he nuzzles my hair and breathes in, slow and deep. When he breathes out, his mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “I’ve never done this before,” he says, so quietly I barely hear him.

“Made pasta?”

He laughs softly, like a sigh. “You’re such a pain in my ass,” he says. “I mean I’ve never done this . . . with someone else.”

I bite my lip, inordinately pleased. I sort of figured Christopher’s done just about everything there is to be done with someone else. “And?”

“And I like it.” I feel his swallow down his throat, his hands covering mine as we shape the dough together.

“I like it, too,” I tell him quietly.

“We can do it again,” he says. “Whenever you want.”

I stare down at our little masterpiece made up of a few humble ingredients, feeling like this night is a masterpiece itself, born out of a few humble ingredients of our own. Kindness, honesty, the work of seeing what we share, not what sets us apart.

A smile, bright and deep from the heart of me, lights up my face. “I’d like that.”

Christopher’s quiet, but I feel it like the wind on a sun-bright autumn day, soft and warm and real . . .

He smiles, too.



* * *



—

One giant plate of cacio e pepe and one very large glass of red wine later, I stand at the door, watching Christopher shrug on his coat and set his work bag over his shoulder.

Nervous energy flutters in my stomach. I pin my cheeks hard between my teeth so I won’t say again the same thing that started this all:

Stay. Please.

Christopher sets a hand on the dead bolt, unlocking it, then the door handle’s lock, too. I feel time slipping like sand between my fingers, the moment almost lost to me.