you know, pump him up big, get a measurement, and then I’ll win the betting pool!”
She pumped her fist. “Thirteen inches, go! I have money riding on that!”
There was no way I was making Chris anything to eat. I needed to work.
But I was concerned about what the impact our nightly and morning activities would have on the annulment. Chris obviously wanted me, but I was sure he was not thinking clearly. He was probably one of those gentlemen who considered marriage to be a sacred pact, and even though we were accidentally married, he felt like he couldn’t go out to clubs as usual and sleep around. He was probably irrationally sex-starved. As soon as he got off, Chris would be back to his obnoxious billionaire self, barking and yelling at me about trying to steal his money.
I needed to emphasize that while I appreciated his hospitality, he and I were roommates. Not fuck buddies.
I’ll just make some normal pasta, I decided, but I didn’t have a good recipe for a high-end pasta dish. I could make a mean macaroni and cheese, but that seemed a bit childish to serve to a grown man. I blushed thinking about just how grown he was.
I ran through my limited recipe repertoire.
I should make him a pasta with a meat sauce. Something hardy. Ugh. I really needed to make him a lasagna.
I pulled up Elsie’s recipe on my phone, had a mini panic attack, forced it down, and headed into the Whole Foods.
My friend’s recipe was straight from her Italian godmother. All fresh ingredients, nothing in a can except the imported whole tomatoes, and I had to grind the meat and make the sausage myself.
After taking way too long in the store, I hauled all my bags of groceries to Chris’s penthouse.
“Gran?” I called when I unlocked the door.
She came rollerblading by, cockatoo on her shoulder.
“Got roller derby,” she said, doing a little twirl in her SENIOR BEATERS shirt. The parrot was wearing a matching shirt and little helmet.
She grinned at me. “Getting him fed then getting him in bed, eh?”
“No bed,” I said. “This is just a thank-you lasagna.”
Gran peered in the bags. “What’s all this?”
“The ingredients,” I said, trying to pump myself up to cook the dish.
“Oh, I bought you a frozen Stouffer’s lasagna,” she said. “I put it in the fridge to defrost for you. Aren’t I a good wingman! Or wing-Gran, I should say!”
“I can’t serve Chris frozen food!” I exclaimed. “You promised him my special one-of-a-kind out-of-this-world homemade lasagna. He’s a billionaire from a super-rich family. He is going to know if I serve him frozen lasagna.”
Gran shrugged. “Don’t overthink it. You just need to take it out of the container, put it into a casserole dish, grate some parm on top, and add a little basil for color after it’s done baking. Put some wine in him, and he’s not going to know the difference.”
“I’m making lasagna,” I said, forcing myself to sound confident. “Elsie gave me a recipe. I know how to follow directions.”
“Godspeed!” Gran said, rollerblading away.
“Fuck! Why is this so hard!” I gasped two hours later. I had the pasta made—my arms were aching from the kneading—and now I was trying to grind the beef. Half my evening was gone, and Chris would probably be home soon. I still had to simmer the sauce for several hours. I took a break from grinding and peered in the pot. It still looked a little watery. I turned up the heat.
The door to the penthouse opened.
“Something smells amazing!” Chris called out, walking into the kitchen, setting his briefcase on a stool at the island, then coming over to give me a very deep kiss that steamed up my glasses more than the sauce had.
“You look sexy in that apron,” he murmured, slipping his hands under the stiff fabric. His hands started wandering lower, but I pushed them off.
“I’m making lasagna,” I told him. “Don’t distract me.”
Because we’re already probably not eating until midnight as it is.
He grinned at me. “You are! That’s so adorably pioneer woman of you.”
“You work hard; you deserve a hot meal.”
“Or maybe a hot something else?” He rubbed his chin. “You did not respond to my text messages. I can’t tell if your making a lasagna is a good reaction or not.”
Before my sex-starved brain could stop short-circuiting enough to come up with a semi-coherent response, Chris’s phone rang, and he answered gruffly, going to his study.
I surveyed the mess in