Oh, Lucas I trusted fully.
Me? Not so much. “Okay but—”
Lucas snatched me by the wrist and pulled me up. And straight into his chest for what I knew would be a Lucas Martín full-body hug.
“We’ll shake on it with a hug, Graham,” he said, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and squeezing me against him, and boy, I wished someone would come up with a way to bottle these up. I’d buy them all. Stack my cabinets with them and save them for a bad day. Or any day. “Do you like capers?”
Caught off guard, I let out a laugh against the fabric of his sweatshirt and asked, “Capers?”
He released me from his arms and took a step backward, once more leaving me to deal with the effects of one of his hug attacks. “All this plotting made me really hungry.”
Before I could tell him how ridiculous that was after he’d just ate half a box of Cronuts, he shot in the direction of the kitchen. He started pulling things out of the fridge. Then went for the pantry. The pan drawer.
He looked at me over his shoulder. “Help me with dinner.”
I walked over to the island and plopped down on a stool. “If by helping, you mean watching?”
He hummed in appreciation. “Oh, I love having an audience.”
“So, what are we cooking?” My gaze fastened to the muscles on his back as he pulled out a chopping board.
“Aubergine lasagna.” He turned, flashing me a grin over his shoulder. “And I want to prep the dough for a rustic ciabatta. For tomorrow.”
Oh Lord. Lucas kneading dough?
He pressed, distracting me from my thoughts: “So what do you say about those capers, then?”
“Love them.”
His eyes lit up. “That’s my girl.”
That’s my girl.
Ah, crap.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rosie
One week.
It had been seven days since we agreed to be partners in this dating experiment and besides my stomach flopping every time I thought about it, nothing had happened. As in, no experimental dates had taken place, no muse had been rediscovered, and no word count had increased. Granted, I had needed a couple days to come up with the dating phases I told Lucas I’d provide him with. Together with a couple of pages of notes that contained anything else I could think of that might help.
When I’d finally handed him everything, Lucas had smiled his megawatt grin, shoved my notes inside his bag, and told me he would study the material.
God, the whole thing was so clinical I often found myself battling between wanting to laugh hysterically and scream warning after warning at myself. Because what in the world was I doing? The man I had secretly daydreamed about for over a year was about to take me on “experimental’ dates I’d sort of designed. And then, he’d pack his bags and leave the continent.
My heart had had enough of getting through the day now that we were living together. It had had enough of not toppling out my mouth every single time Lucas strolled out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and an army of droplets dangling off his skin. It had had enough of not thrumming straight out of my chest at the sight of him turning around—still in that goddamn towel—and making the muscles that lined his neck, shoulders, and back dance when he lifted his backpack. My weak, silly heart had had enough of fighting the urge to fall at my feet when every evening he was back with a bag of groceries and a dashing smile and he asked me “How many words today, Rosie?” as he unpacked everything and got started with dinner.
And that last part in particular? Took a lot to survive.
Because Lucas cooking? Lucas at the stove? It was like having a first-row ticket to a show designed to fulfill sexual fantasies I didn’t know I had. Like the Magic Mike of Doughs and Pans. Lucas could be kneading bread and my sad and neglected lady parts would riot at the sight of his fingers pressing and stroking the smooth surface, working the mix with a diligence and iron hand that had me sweating and shifting on the stool. He could be flipping an omelet and I’d sigh in longing at the way his biceps flexed.
Ugh. And to make things worse—harder for my weak, silly heart and lady parts—the result, Lucas’s food, was brilliant, incredible, amazing, showstopping, and all the rest of Lady Gaga’s superlatives.
So my heart and I had had enough.
My phone pinged with a text, shaking me off my Lucas-induced thoughts. I reached across the island, where I set camp every day to work, and unlocked it.
Unknown: Date night, today. 6pm?
Ignoring the flutter at the words date night, I reread the message a couple of times.