The Wedding Band by Cara Connelly Page B

dough with the heels of his hands.
    â€œYou’re making it fresh. Color me impressed.”
    â€œFettuccini okay?” He lifted his glass with a floury hand. She watched his throat move as he swallowed.
    â€œSure.” She dropped her gaze to the dough. He worked it expertly. His hands were big but not clumsy. They knew how to exert precisely the right amount of pressure.
    As her elbow knew from experience.
    Other parts of her body were pretty sure of it too.
    Leaving the dough to rest, he lifted a pasta maker from a low shelf, displaying an ass she was—­okay—­sorry to see he’d dressed in board shorts.
    Still, it was riveting.
    She kept her eyes on it as he moved around the kitchen, setting a pot of water to boil on the stove, chopping broccoli, then stir-­frying it on a second burner, melting butter in a saucepan on a third.
    That was three times more burners than she’d ever used at once.
    Tripod tapped her leg with his foot.
    â€œHe likes to watch,” Kota said. So she picked him up and put him on the other stool. He jumped over on her lap. Kota laughed. “Given a choice, guys take lap every time.”
    She sipped her wine. “That’s why it’s best not to give them a choice.”
    He smiled, wickedly.
    â€œI’m serious,” she said. “I’m not here for sex.” Unfortunately.
    â€œI hear you.”
    â€œBut you don’t believe me.”
    Patiently, he rolled out the dough. “I believe you believe it.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    He fed the dough into the pasta maker, catching strands of fettuccini as they came out the other end. “It means I believe you think you didn’t come here for sex.”
    â€œOh, you think I deluded myself? That I subconsciously knew I wouldn’t be able to resist you?”
    He spread the pasta on parchment. “Something like that.”
    She huffed. “The arrogance.”
    â€œI almost had you on the porch.”
    â€œPfft. I had an itch on my arm and you happened to scratch it.”
    He snickered.
    She took a measured sip of wine. It wouldn’t do to get drunk. Besides, even if it was noon in L.A., it was breakfast time here.
    Which meant she was drinking with breakfast. Way to kick off the week.
    She set her glass on the counter. “It can’t be nine o’clock yet. Wouldn’t bacon and eggs be more like it?”
    â€œLook around,” he said. “You see any clocks?”
    She looked. No clocks.
    â€œI don’t know about you,” he said, “but my life’s scheduled down to the minute. Studio, set, meetings, read-­throughs, more meetings, photo shoots, interviews.”
    He spread another handful of pasta on parchment. “When I come here, I don’t give a shit what time it is. I do what I want, when I want.” He shrugged. “Pasta for breakfast? Why not? With wine? Why not?”
    She couldn’t think of a good reason. Besides, she’d been up all night, with just a nap on the plane. She’d eaten next to nothing for twenty-­four hours. And, well, pasta.
    She picked up her glass. “Okay, I’m good with that.”
    T HEY ATE A LFREDO in the deep shade of the porch, at a café table barely big enough for their plates.
    At a table that small, intimacy was on the menu, which was exactly why Kota chose it. He was close enough to see the gold flecks in Christy’s caramel eyes.
    Lunch had lightened her mood. “This is amazing.” Her eyes rolled in ecstasy. “The pasta, oh God. And the sauce. So creamy, but so light.”
    He topped off her wine, even though it would probably put her to sleep. The truth was, he could use some shuteye himself. Just a catnap before sex. Then another one after.
    Meanwhile, he enjoyed her enjoyment, happy to contribute to her wonderful ass.
    Around them, peace reigned. The dogs snored under the table. Sunlight glinted off the water. A