The kitchen smelled like garlic and herbs, the warm scent wrapping around Viola the moment she stepped inside. She crossed her arms, still barefoot, still very much annoyed—but also trying not to look too impressed.
Because Mack, in sweats, barefoot and wearing that damn backwards Glock cap, was at the stove.
And he was cooking.
Muscles flexed under his loose shirt every time he stirred the sauce. His veins popped with every movement, and she hated herself a little for noticing that more than the actual food.
"You cook now?" she muttered, perching on a stool at the kitchen island. "Should I be afraid?"
Mack turned just enough to shoot her a smirk over his shoulder. "You like pasta."
"You barely know me."
He set down the spoon and walked over to her, crowding her with that slow, pred
