“Maybe it was.”
He was definitely the king of ambiguity. Adam, guarded and private, never gave much away about himself. Already he was fighting her inquiries.
“I’ve got wine ready on the veranda, if you’d like a drink before you start cooking.”
“We.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re going to help me, Adam.” Maybe she could get him to open up while chopping vegetables and mincing meat.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought I’d just watch.”
“That’s no fun.” She smiled. “You’ll enjoy the meal more knowing you’ve participated.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding his head. “I’ll try. But I’m warning you, I’ve never been too good in the kitchen.”
“If you can design a house like this, you can sauté veggies. I’m sure of it.”
He chuckled and his entire face brightened. Good to see. She followed him into the kitchen, where he set her bag down on an island counter nearly bigger than the entire kitchen in her apartment. Oh, it would be a thrill cooking in here.
“So what’s the dish called?”
“Tagliatelle Bolognese.”
“Impressive.”
“It’s delicious. Unless you’re a vegetarian. Then you might have issues.”
“You know I’m not.”
She did know that much. They’d shared a meal together. “Well, since the sauce needs simmering for an hour or two, maybe we’ll have our wine after we get the sauce going.”
“Sounds like a plan. What should I do?”
She scanned his pristine clothing. “For one, take your shirt off.”
A smile twitched at his lips. “Okay.”
He reached for the top button on his shirt. After unfastening it, he unbuttoned the next and the next. Mia’s throat went dry as his shirt gaped open, exposing a finely bronzed column of skin. She hadn’t forgotten what he looked like without a shirt. Just three days ago he’d strode out of the sea, soaking wet, taking confident strides to come to her aid.
“Why am I doing this?” he asked finally. He was down to the fourth button.
Her gaze dipped again and she stared at his chest. “Because, uh, the sauce splatters sometimes. I wouldn’t want you to ruin your nice shirt.”
“And why aren’t you doing the same? Taking off that beautiful dress?”
Her breath hitched. He was flirting, in a dangerous way. “Because,” she said, digging into her bag and grabbing her protection. “I brought an apron.”
She snapped her wrist and the apron unfolded. It was an over-the-head, tie-at-the-waist apron with tiny flowers that didn’t clash with her coral dress. She put it on and tied the straps behind her back. “There. Why don’t you change into a T-shirt or something?”
He nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
By the time Adam returned, she had all the ingredients in place. He wore a dark T-shirt now, with white lettering that spelled out Catalina Island. “Better?”
The muscles in his arms nearly popped out of the shirt. “Uh-huh.”
“What now?” he asked.
“Would you mind cutting up the onions, celery and garlic?”
“Sure.”
He grabbed a knife from a drawer and began with the onions. While he was chopping away, she slivered pieces of pork and pancetta. “I’ll need a frying pan,” she said. Her gaze flew to the dozens of drawers and cabinets lining the walls. She’d gotten lucky; the chopping blocks and knives were on the countertop.
“Here, let me.” Adam reached for a wide cabinet in front of her and grazed the tops of her thighs with his forearm as he opened the lower door. She froze for a second as a hot flurry swept through her lower parts. It was an accidental touch, but oh how her body had reacted. His fingertips simply touched the drawer loaded with shiny pots and pans and it slid open automatically. “There you go.”
She stood, astonished. “I’ve never seen anything like that. You have a bat cave kitchen, too.”
“It’s automated, that’s all. No pulling or yanking required.”
“I think I’m in heaven.” How wistful she sounded, her voice breathy.
Adam stood close, gazing at her in that way he had, as if trying to figure her out. His eyes were pure silver gray and a smidgen of blue surrounded the rims. They reminded her of a calm sea after a storm. “I think I am, too.”
She blinked. His words fell from his lips sincerely, not so much heady flirtation but as if he’d been surprised, pleasantly. Her focus was sidetracked by compelling eyes, ego-lifting words and a hard swimmer’s body. Stop it, Mia. Concentrate. Think about Rose. And why you are here.
She turned from him and both resumed their work. After a minute, she tossed the veggies into the fry pan, adding olive oil to the mix. The pan sizzled. “So, did you help your mother cook when you were a boy?” she asked.
Grandma Tess always said you could judge a man by the way he treated his mother.
“Nah, my mom would toss us boys out of the kitchen. Only Lily was— Never mind.”
She turned away from the clarifying onions and steaming veggies to glance at his profile. A tic worked at his jaw, his face pinched. “Lily?”
“My sister. She’s gone now. But to answer your question, no, I didn’t help with meals much.”
He’d had a sister, and now she was gone? Oh, she could relate to that. Her poor sweet Anna was also gone. He didn’t want to talk about his sister. No great surprise. She’d already learned that Adam didn’t like to talk about himself. “Do you have brothers?”
“One.”
He didn’t say more. It was like the proverbial pulling teeth to get answers from him.
She added the pork to the mix and stirred. “Did you grow up around here?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“No, did you?”
“I grew up not far from here. In the OC.” She didn’t like thinking about those times and how her family had been run out of town, thanks to her father. She, her mama and sister had had to leave their friends, their home and the only life they’d ever known because of James Burkel. Mia had cried for days. It wasn’t fair, she kept screaming at her mother. But it hadn’t been her mother’s fault. Her mother had been a victim, too, and the scandal of her father’s creation had besmirched the family name. The worst of it was that an innocent young girl had lost her life. “Here, stir this for me,” she said to Adam, “if you wouldn’t mind. We’re caramelizing the meat and veggies now and don’t want them to burn. I’ll get the sauce.”
“Sure.” He grabbed the wooden spoon from her hands and stood like stone, his face tightly wound as he concentrated on stirring. She was sorry she’d made him uncomfortable with her questions. But they had to be asked.
“Okay, in goes the sauce. Stand back a little.”
He turned her way. “What’s that?”
She gripped a tube of tomato paste in her hand and squeezed. Red paste swirled out. “Tuscan toothpaste.”
He laughed, surprised. “What?”
“That’s what we call it. It’s