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Conner led us back through the house to the kitchen. Walking behind him, I realized that I liked the way he moved. Confident and powerful without unnecessary pretense. He reminded me of a racehorse—the underdog sort who ran swift and true despite a lack of breeding. His fortitude wasn’t taught or manufactured; he was born with it, as natural as the slight cleft in his chin. “Your place is nice,” I said, feeling a need to fill the silence. “Our place.” “Right … our place,” I murmured. “That’s going to take some time to get used to.” “Have a seat at the bar. You like risotto?” My eyebrows hit my hairline. I wasn’t sure if I was more surprised he was offering to cook or that he was making Italian. He smirked over his shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone, but Ma loves Italian. She loves to cook in gen
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