Fever by Maya Banks Page B

combination, which
    enabled whoever was cooking to see into the dining room as well as the living room.
    He lifted her onto the high-backed bar stool and then walked around to the stove top, where three
    different skillets were simmering. She watched with interest while he drained pasta and then tossed it
    into the skillet with the sauce. He gave it an expert twist, and added seasoning before serving two
    plates. Lastly, he speared a chicken breast, which had been sautéing in the last pan and sliced it into
    thin pieces before arranging it over the pasta.
    “Voilà,” he pronounced as he handed it over the bar to her.
    “I’m impressed,” she said sincerely. “It looks and smells wonderful. I wouldn’t have thought you
    cooked.”
    He lifted an eyebrow. “Why not?”
    She felt heat bloom in her cheeks. “I don’t see a lot of wealthy, eligible bachelors cooking for
    themselves.”
    He laughed. “I raised my younger sister and at the time we couldn’t afford to eat out or pay
    someone else to do the cooking. I was just a poor college student trying to survive.”
    “Where were your parents?”
    His eyes flickered. “They were killed in a car accident when Mia was six years old.”
    Bethany frowned in concentration. “You must be quite a bit older than her then if you were already
    in college.”
    “Fourteen years,” he confirmed. “She was an ‘oops’ baby, born when my mother was in her forties.
    She had me quite young and they thought they were through.”
    “It’s pretty cool that you raised your sister,” she said quietly.
    He shrugged. “Not much else to do. I wasn’t going to abandon her. I’m the only family she has.”
    He walked around, holding his own plate and then sat beside her on the next stool. He glanced over
    to see she hadn’t even taken a bite and he frowned. “Eat, Bethany.”
    She dug her fork into the succulent-looking pasta and inhaled as she raised the bite to her lips. It
    smelled divine.
    When it hit her tongue, she closed her eyes and sighed.
    “Good?”
    “Delicious,” she said.
    He suddenly got up and she saw him go around and get two glasses that were out on the counter. He
    placed a glass of orange juice in front of her and she went soft. He’d remembered that she’d asked for
    orange juice last time.
    She savored every bite, every sip until she was beyond full. Pushing the plate away, she gave a
    contented sigh. “Thank you, Jace. That was wonderful.”
    He stared at her for a long, silent moment. “I like the way you say my name.”
    Her brows furrowed. What was she supposed to say to that?
    Knowing they had a lot to talk about—she absolutely had to tell him that she wasn’t moving into his
    sister’s apartment!—she wrapped her fingers nervously around each other and peeked up at Jace.
    “Jace?” she said softly. “We need to talk.”
    He nodded, his lips pressed firmly together. “Bet your ass we do. Let’s go back into the living
    room. I have questions I still don’t have answers to.”
    She blinked and then drew her brows together. Before she could tell him that she was the one
    planning to do the talking, he urged her up from her chair and put a firm hand on her back to guide her
    into the living room.
    After parking her on the couch, he turned on the fireplace. She sighed as the flames licked upward.
    It gave the room such a homey feel, and then she shook her head at the absurdity of that thought. What
    would she know about a home? Home was what you made it, and she and Jack had made home out of
    some pretty barren places.
    Bleakly, she thought back to the places, or rather nooks, they’d made home over the years. In a few
    cases, she’d been fortunate to land a job for an extended period and they’d actually gotten to live in a
    shabby efficiency motel. It hadn’t been much, but she’d been delighted to have a permanent residence
    and not one they had to move in and out of based on occupancy.
    “What are you shaking your head about?”