hardware store on my way home and grabbed some foam to fill it. I’ll do that right away.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“We could always get a cat.”
“True, but what would we do with it after we sell the place?”
“You could take it with you,” he says from the top of the stairs. His fingers go to the buttons on his shirt, and he pops each one through its hole. I try not to stare, really, I do, but I’m hopeless. The man has a beautiful body, an array of muscles I just can’t seem to stop fantasizing about. Maybe I should have sex with him, get it out of my system so I can move on to more important matters.
How’s that for logical thinking at its worst?
I clear my throat, and under the guise of picking lint off my yoga pants, I bend forward. “If it wasn’t the traps, I wonder what the banging noise was.”
“Old houses creak. Could have been the pipes. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary up here.”
“That’s a plausible hypothesis,” I say, and he arches a brow at me before disappearing into the bathroom to shower and change. I go back to check on the fire and warm myself up a bit. I stand before the hearth and try not to visualize him removing his clothes, those big hands running soapy water over his gorgeous body. My fingers twitch; I steeple them, and not because I want to drop to my knees in prayer. Nope, that’s not the reason I want to drop to my knees at all.
Good God, girl, get it together.
Ten minutes later, he comes back down the stairs, and this time, his look is casual, with low slung jeans and a navy T-shirt. I like it. A lot.
“How does pasta sound?” he asks.
“Carbs are my favorite.”
He grins. “Come on. I thought I’d make spaghetti and meatballs. Something simple.”
“To you. What can I do to help?” We enter the kitchen, and all the ingredients are laid out. “Wait, you make the sauce from scratch?” Who was this man?
“Yeah, don’t you?” he asks with a teasing grin.
“If I can’t nuke it, I don’t cook it.”
Laughing, we both go to the sink to wash up. “What are the nails for?” I ask, gesturing toward a box on the counter.
“Back deck. I need to get at it before we get too much snow. The wood is being delivered tomorrow. Will you be home to get it?”
Home.
That sounds so strange. This isn’t my home, even if I’m playing house with all these guests.
“I should be.”
After we dry our hands, he grabs the can opener from the drawer and hands it to me. “Why don’t you open the tomatoes, sauce, and paste.”
As I open all the cans, he grabs a pot, fills it with water, and places it on the back burner. He tosses in some salt, reaches for another pot, and puts it on the front burner. “That one is for the pasta, and this one is for the sauce.”
“Should I pour these in?” I ask, and he nods, his hard body brushing mine as he looks over my shoulder. Working to ignore the quiver along my spine, I dump the tomatoes, sauce, and the tomato paste into the pot.
He gestures to the jar on the counter filled with ladles and spoons. “Give it a stir, and we’ll let it simmer while we make the meatballs.”
I reach for one of Gram’s big wooden spoons and mix the sauces together. “Now what?”
Nate opens the package of ground beef and dumps it into the bowl. “We’ll spice these up and put them in the oven.”
I help him toss in onion, garlic, basil, oregano, breadcrumbs, and an egg, finishing it off with a dash of salt and pepper. I must say, cooking with Nate is rather fun and educational.
“Now, we get messy.” He mixes it with his hands then takes about a spoonful of beef into