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“I’ll remember that.” Reuben relaxes, breathing out a laugh. “Come on, let’s get inside and see if I have everything you need.” He gestures for me to lead the way.

***

Closing the oven, I set a sixty minute timer.

A slow clap causes me to spin around. Reuben leans against the doorway of the kitchen, watching me appraisingly.

“That felt poetic,” he comments. “You moved with…”

“Passion?” I ask.

He gestures for me, and I meet him at the doorway.

Examining Reuben.

“What is your passion?” I watch his face. “Do you enjoy cooking?”

His hand falls to my waist.

I don’t think he means to touch me. He jumps when he makes contact with my shirt. “Do you feel this?” he asks, his eyes hooding as he hyper-focuses on my lips.

“Feel what?” Cocking my head, I spin out of his hold and exit the kitchen.

Except I know exactly what he means. The charged energy between us. It’s just too much. I told Orzo I would go after other men, and I meant it, I just…

There’s a bar to the left, just outside the door, and I settle onto a stool at it.

I expect Reuben to join next to me, but instead he gets behind the bar. He reaches beneath it, pulling out a bottle of whiskey.

“No thanks.” Before he even offers. “I tend to steer clear of alcohol.”

“I do too.” He quirks his lips, pouring a single shot.

But he doesn’t drink it, simply leaving it there.

“I want to know more about you, Cinnamon,” he offers haphazardly.

His confession causes a myriad of emotions to propel ants across my skin. I start with, “I don’t date,” and level him with an intense stare.

Reuben is attractive in a dangerous sort of way. He’s the boy next door who grew up to own countless restaurants and drive multiple expensive cars all while being free to drop everything in the middle of the week to meet a random woman at their empty establishment.

He licks the top of his teeth before giving me a tight smile. “Sure. Want to play a game while we wait for your food to finish up?” he offers.

Raising a brow, I shrug a shoulder. “What kind?”

“A variety of twenty questions, but the first to lie or withhold, drinks the shot,” he proposes.

I still have forty-five minutes until my moussaka is done… I should work on prepping a salad, but I will have time later.

The connection Reuben mentioned before is more prevalent in the silence.

Like there is a rope tugging me to him. A voice screaming, I get closer to him. My entire being begging me to wrap my arms around him.

But I ignore it all.

“Sure. I’ll start. Why did you open restaurants?”

Reuben’s eyes turn glassy as he stares unfocused over my shoulder, and then his attention bounces behind me as if he is seeing something that isn’t there.