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Hunter nods toward a floating staircase. “The door’s underneath the stairs.”
“You’ll need a baby gate for those stairs.”
“Jessica said the same thing,” he muses under his breath.
“Who’s Jessica?”
“An old friend from high school. She has three daughters, so she knows all about childproofing.”
I nod slowly. “Was she the one you took to Saint Lucia?” I didn’t plan on asking him that, but now that I have, I really want to know.
He looks up from slicing strawberries. “Yes. We sometimes travel together.”
“Are you still sleeping with her?” Why in the hell did I just ask him that?
He puts down the knife, giving me his undivided attention. “No. Not since Saint Lucia.”
“I’m sorry. That was none of my business.”
His eyes soften. “It’s okay.”
I point over my shoulder toward the bathroom. “I’m going to go …”
“Okay,” he says, resuming his slicing.
* * *
Hunter is setting the table when I come out of the bathroom. Two plates of smothered chicken thighs over rice and a side of roasted broccolini sit at opposite ends of the pub-style table. Hunter fills our glasses with strawberry lemonade before sitting down across from me. As we’ve done the past few times we’ve eaten together, we reach across the table and take each other’s hands. Hunter’s not a religious man, but every time we eat a meal together, he bows his head and closes his eyes while I say grace.
After my prayer of thanksgiving, we both say amen and let go of each other’s hands.
“This looks so good.” I start with the chicken first. I take a bite and chew, holding up my finger because I need a minute and another bite before I give praises where they’re due. “Sorry,” I say after swallowing my food. “I just had to process the deliciousness of this chicken. Oh my God, Hunter.” I take another bite.
A look of satisfaction crosses his features. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Help yourself but save room for dessert.”
“What’s for dessert?”
“Apple pie ravioli and homemade ice cream.”
“God, you’re amazing.” I shift wide eyes to him. “Chef. I meant you’re an amazing chef. I was talking about your skills in the kitchen.” I take a breath and give a small laugh.
A ghost of a smile traces his lips, but he doesn’t call me out on my stumble. “I’m humbled that you think I’m an amazing chef. It’s what I love to do.”
“I can tell.” My eyes are stuck on him as I twist my fork in my rice.
“And I love cooking for you.”
“You do?” I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip, somewhat smothering my smile.
“You have one helluva appetite, Yasmine Clark.” For him, he has no fucking idea.
I blink out of my daze, praying to God that my real hunger doesn’t show on my face. “Facts. And it’s not just because I’m eating for two. I eat like this all the time.”
“What do you do to stay so fit? You looked fucking incredible in that gold dress.”
