Chapter Eight
When the wine was open and the sauce bubbling away, Ben practiced his wind-up to throw a strand of spaghetti against the wall, claiming he was going to use the trick to test for doneness, because when else was he going to be in a kitchen where pasta sticking to the wall wouldn’t throw the homeowner into a tizzy?
Cocooned in the warm glow of the cabin and the sweet, sharp smells of the simmering sauce, Casey couldn’t believe she was laughing this hard. She was perfectly happy for him to have taken over the cooking—it was certainly going to be a better meal than anything she’d have come up with on her own.
He, though, was far more interested in asking about her than he was in talking about the infinite varieties of cheese being drilled into his head this semester.
“Your pai
