Perfect for You

"Do you have food hidden on you? You smell delicious."
    The corner of his mouth hitched a tiny bit. "Are you hungry?"
    "I'm always hungry." As if punctuating her statement, her stomach rumbled.
    "Come." He motioned for her to follow him.
    She watched, dumbfounded for a moment, before hurrying to keep up with him. "Where are we going?"
    "My apartment. I will make you dinner."
    "Seriously?"
    He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Just dinner. You don't need to worry."
    Bummer, because she wouldn't have minded him coming on to her. He had on jeans, just like the last time she'd seen him, but this time with worn boots and a white shirt open at the color. His coat was black velvet.
    Hot.
    He stepped aside to let her enter. She didn't hesitate, walking right in. She looked around as he turned the lights on, taking off her coat and dropping it on the leather couch, which was one of the few furnishings he had. "It's got a nice open feel," she said diplomatically.
    "I just moved here," he explained.
    "From?"
    "New York." He took off his jacket and headed down the hall.
    "Did you move here for work?" she asked as she followed him.
    "Yes."
    She waited for more, but he was obviously a man of few words. She shrugged. Whatever. He was pretty to look at and he was going to feed her. She had no complaints.
    He went all the way to the back of the flat and flipped a light switch. The room lit up, revealing a modern state-of-the-art kitchen.
    "Spiffy," she said, running her hand along the bar top.
    "It's the reason I bought this apartment." Rolling up his sleeves, he took out a pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. Then he opened the huge refrigerator and began taking out ingredients.
    She perched on a high stool, resting her chin on her hands. "You aren't originally from New York."
    "I'm from Peru." He pulled out a cutting board and a huge knife.
    "How old are you?"
    "Twenty-eight."
    "Are you married?"
    He gave her a flat look as he washed some vegetables.
    "I was just wondering." She shrugged unapologetically. "You want me to answer some questions?"
    "No."
    "I'm not married either."
    "That's because you're a child."
    Anna stiffened. "I am not. I'm twenty-one."
    "Exactly." He glanced at her as he set a pan on a hot burner.
    She frowned at him, not sure what to say. She settled on a safe topic for the time being. "You look like you know what you're doing."
    "I'm a chef."
    "Cool. I can't cook at all. It's amazing that you do it for a living."
    He didn't say anything. She chose to believe it was because he was focusing so hard on what he was doing. He put pasta in the boiling water and then poured oil in the other pan before throwing in the stuff he'd chopped up.
    He looked so cute. His brow furrowed in concentration, and his movements were all economical and efficient.
    He'd treat his woman the same way. He'd focus on her like nothing else existed, passionate and single-minded about loving her.
    She was going to be his woman.
    Anna nodded. It was meant to be—she didn't have a doubt. She'd have to convince him, but she could do that.
    Het set a shallow bowl in front of her, piled high with pasta. The scent wafted up, reminiscent of the sweet oniony smell that clung to him, and her mouth watered. "This looks amazing."
    He poured himself a glass of wine and snagged the chair next to her, angling it away from her so there was some space between them.
    "Can I have some wine?"
    "No," he said firmly.
    No one ever gave her alcohol. She was totally old enough too. She picked up her fork. "Aren't you going to eat?"
    "I ate already."
    She paused before taking a bite. "You cooked just for me."
    "It's what I do."
    It was what he did for work, but this was different. She considered him as she lifted the forkful to her mouth. She doubted he picked up any stray from the streets to bring home.
    He was as good as hers.
    Then she gasped. She chewed and swallowed quickly. "Oh my God that was delicious ."
    "Thank you." He took a sip of wine, watching her calmly.
    Whatever. This was the best pasta she'd ever had, and that was saying something because Freya was a great cook. She dug in, not caring that her face was probably shiny with oil.
    When the bowl was empty, she stared at it in dismay.
    He handed her a napkin. "Would you like more?"
    "Hell yes."
    She ate the second bowl just as eagerly. She would have asked for another serving except she saw that he gave her all there was.
    The whole time he watched her. Normally she would have found it