Pregnant by Morning(44)
He leaned to plant an upside-down kiss on her lips. “Want me to scrub your back?”
Which was code for Very-Little-Bathing-To-Occur. “Normally I’d be all over that. But I’m just wiped out. The shower is to wake me up.” She smiled to soften the blow.
“If you’re sure.” He brushed a thumb tenderly across her temple and disappeared into the kitchen. Thumps of cabinets opening and dishes clinking drifted out. Comforting sounds. Sounds of home.
How would she know? She’d never had the kind of home the noises had evoked. Never wanted one.
Until now.
Oh, God, where had that come from? This wasn’t her home. It wasn’t even Matt’s home. Home was for people who wanted to stay together, who implicitly trusted each other and never spent all their energy looking for the exit.
She didn’t do the domestic thing for a reason. And her subconscious argued that the reason was because she hadn’t done it with the right person yet.
Heavy with fatigue, she wandered upstairs to take a long hot shower and get dressed. Somewhere along the way, she began to feel human again. By the time she returned to the lower level, Matt was watching cable news with the crinkle in his forehead that meant he was bored.
When he caught sight of her, he lit up, his expression radiant, and he was absolutely the most gorgeous man on earth. Her heart squished. Out of nowhere, lines of a new song popped into her head. A sappy, sugary love song.
She wasn’t just falling for him, she’d splatted flat on the ground and then a giant cupid had stepped on her.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Define better,” she mumbled, eyes closed in case her stupid, inadvisable feelings were beaming from her insides. “I’m awake, if that’s what you mean.”
He leaped off the couch and hustled her into the kitchen so he could ply her with food, though the thought of putting anything in her mouth made her slightly nauseous.
Idiot reporters. Those creeps were still upsetting her. She didn’t say anything. There was no point in Matt being upset, too.
Gulping orange juice, she took a seat at the island and watched Matt move around the kitchen. Poetry in motion. He was never content to shove a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and call it breakfast. His idea of cooking involved creativity usually reserved for master chefs.
Today, he was making an egg-white omelet with prosciutto and sun-dried tomatoes, and a half-moon of cantaloupe on the side. He placed the plate in front of her with a flourish and refilled her empty orange juice glass.
She forked a bite into her mouth and swallowed. It stayed down. “Delicious. As always. You should open a restaurant.”
“Nah. I just throw some stuff together and pray it turns out.” He waved it off with a pleased smile. “Cooking is fun.”
“I’m glad one of us thinks so.” Her idea of fun was paying someone else to cook. And clean up the kitchen. Matt had never met a pan unworthy of his olive oil or chicken stock. But he made such fantastic dishes, she really didn’t mind cleaning up.
“Well, I never used to.” He shrugged. “But I like cooking for you.”
“Why, because I’m so inventive with how I show my appreciation?” She waggled her brows.
He laughed. “That is one of the perks. But mostly because you let me. Amber...she was kind of a Gordon Ramsay about her kitchen. I stayed out of it.”
The omelet took on a whole new significance. “You never cooked for Amber?”
“Sure, when we were dating. But then, I don’t know. She loved to cook and prided herself on it, so I just didn’t anymore.” He stared out the window at the joint courtyard Palazzo D’Inverno shared with Vincenzo’s house, his gaze faraway and dejected. “I paid through the nose to upgrade the kitchen in this place. For her. I didn’t expect to be the one who would actually use it. Honestly, I probably never would have started cooking again if you hadn’t stayed.”
That put a lump the size of a grapefruit in her throat. She couldn’t swallow. “Thanks for resurrecting your spatula for me.”
He shot her a grin. Lately, it didn’t take long at all for him to snap out of his Amber mood, which, if she had her way, he’d get out of permanently.
“You eat too much takeout. Or you used to. You were practically wasted away to nothing when I got ahold of you. At least this way, I know you’re putting something healthy into your body.”
“Oh, I see. You cook for me because you’re concerned about my health,” she joked back.
And then it sank in. It wasn’t a joke. He’d been taking care of her. All along. Maybe subconsciously she’d known that and hence had begun to equate kitchen sounds with a sense of home.