They pulled up to his place. Lights low. A warm glow through the windows.
She stepped inside and instantly smelled garlic and herbs.
“You cooked?” she asked, surprised.
He shrugged. “You like pasta.”
Her heart did a weird thing—kind of like a skip. Then a stumble. Then maybe a little jump.
“Wow. You’re trying really hard to be irresistible tonight.”
He was already pulling off his hoodie, revealing a white tank underneath that clung in all the right places.
“I don’t have to try, baby.”
Viola groaned. “You really were raised on arrogance, huh?”
“French toast and confidence, sweetheart.”
Dinner was perfect. Viola couldn’t lie—he’d nailed the pasta. Rich, garlicky, just enough spice. She was two bites from declaring him officially dangerous when he brought out wine and cheesecake.
N
