Penelope
In the past week and a half, I've learned a lot about Wolfie Cox.
I've learned how steady and comforting his heartbeat feels against my cheek when I'm lying on his chest, and the way it speeds up when my fingers lace with his. I've learned how he tastes first thing in the morning, his lips pressing sleepily to mine. I've learned what makes him anxious and what turns him on, sparking that dangerous flicker in his stormy eyes. He's let me see a deeper, softer side of him that very few have seen before. A side that I'm drawn to like a moth to a flame.
But none of this intimate knowledge of him is doing me any good right now. As I stare blankly into my pantry, I'm realizing the downside of skipping straight to the heavy stuff. I haven't managed to learn a single thing this man likes to eat.
I close the pantry door with a frustrated groan. Why haven't I asked any of the easy questions?
For example, what's your favorite color? What's your favorite movie? If you pretended to be a girl's boyfriend for a weekend to impress her boss, what would you want her to cook you as a thank-you? You know, the usual stuff.
I reach for my phone, hoping that something in our texts will give me some sort of clue. Has he at any point even hinted at a food he likes? Or mentioned what kind of takeout he was ordering?
It takes all of ten seconds to scroll to the top of our existing conversations without finding anything helpful.
Well. That did approximately nothing.
I pocket my phone, trying to refocus on the pantry instead of the taunting green numbers on the oven clock. It's six fifteen, only forty-five minutes until Wolfie arrives.
I guess I could call Connor and ask him what his roommate's favorite foods are, but that would be opening the floodgates on a million and one questions, none of which I have an answer to. Because the truth is, aside from eating whatever it is I finally decide to cook, I don't know exactly what's going to happen with Wolfie tonight.
If it were only up to me, we'd be finishing what we started at the lake house before we were so rudely interrupted by my brother. But with Wolfie, there are no guarantees. Only hopeful expectations. And tonight, what I'm hoping more than anything is that he'll open up to me more. If this dinner snafu has taught me anything, it's that there's still a lot for me to learn about this man.
Just when I'm ready to throw in the towel and order a pizza, I spy two boxes of penne tucked in the far back of the pantry.
Thank God. Everybody likes pasta. And if they don't, I honestly don't trust them. I bring a pot of water to a boil on the stove, then locate all the ingredients in my fridge for homemade alfredo. And what kind of monster doesn't like alfredo sauce?
By the time the glowing green numbers on the oven flash seven o'clock, the sauce is simmering on the stove, the table is set with wine, bread, and two plates of penne. Not bad for a last-minute dinner date. It takes a few tries to get my smart speaker to respond to me, but soft acoustic music eventually fills my tiny apartment, setting the perfect mood.
That mood is instantly interrupted, however, by the motorized buzz of the intercom, announcing Wolfie's arrival. Just the sound of it makes my stomach go full track-and-field star and high-jump into my throat.
Jeez. I guess I was too busy feeling frustrated about dinner that I hardly noticed how on edge my nerves have been.
With a deep breath, I press the button to buzz my guest in and try to tamp down the jitters in my belly. Moments later, I hear the muffled trudge of him coming up the stairs, followed by three quick knocks at my door.
"Coming!" With one last check of my reflection in the microwave, I head for the door and let him in.
Maybe it's the way his coat is zipped all the way up to his chin to block out the cold, or maybe it's the mysterious soothing effect those stormy eyes have on me. But one look at Wolfie standing in my doorway and everything-my nerves, my frustration about cooking dinner, all of it-instantly tumbles away. As for Wolfie, when his eyes meet mine, his usual scowl gives way to the barest hint of a smile.
"Since when does winter start in November?" he says, shuddering for effect.
"Since forever. This is Chicago."
I slink away from the door frame and he follows me inside, careful to take off his snowy leather boots while still on the welcome mat. God bless him for that. I just cleaned these floors. Under his coat, he has on dark-washed jeans and a soft-looking gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. It's precisely the same shade as his eyes.
"Smells great in here." He slings his jacket over a free hook on my coat rack, scanning my apartment with curious eyes. "Looks great too."
"Thanks. I hope you like pasta."
He lifts a brow. "Doesn't everyone like pasta?"
"My thoughts exactly."
As I lead him into the kitchen, he continues to take in his surroundings, his gaze pausing on some of the more unique elements of my apartment-my antique bookcase overflowing with mystery novels, the stepstool I keep in the corner to help me change light bulbs and reach things on the top shelves. All normal, everyday things for me, but Wolfie looks at them like artifacts in a museum.
"This place is so . . . you," he says finally, running his fingers along the label of my whiskey bottle turned flower vase. "Love it."
"Then maybe you should come by more often." The words tumble off my lips so naturally, I almost don't realize how flirty I'm being. "I mean, you're welcome anytime.
Wolfie smiles, his eyes meeting mine. "What's on the menu for tonight?"
"Not whiskey, for once," I tease, and it earns me one of his signature throaty laughs. "I made pasta. And there's wine too. Although I'm not sure that rosé pairs with alfredo, but it's all I had."
His eyes narrow, one dark brow arching toward the stove. "You made homemade pasta sauce?"
"Of course. I couldn't invite you over for a home-cooked meal and serve you something out of a jar." I gnaw on my lip, readying myself for his usual biting commentary, but instead, his mouth pulls into an easy smile.
"Damn. You're fucking cute."
Holy crap. Never has my heart squeezed so tight as it did at the way he said that, so plain and straightforward, like he was stating a matter of pure fact. The sky is blue, water is wet, and Wolfie Cox thinks I'm fucking cute.
Maybe tonight will go the way I want it to after all.
With plates in hand, I lead Wolfie to the stove to serve himself the sauce. While I watch, he drizzles two big spoonfuls onto his pasta.
"You've been hiding the fact you can cook from me. This looks awesome," he says with a smile.
I grin, then do the same, ladling sauce onto my plate before joining him at the table. We easily fall into comfortable chitchat, discussing something idiotic my brother did at the store today, the conversation naturally shifting toward the topic of work.
"You should've seen how busy the store was today." Wolfie pierces a penne noodle with his fork, shaking his head in disbelief. "I haven't seen it that packed since we first launched the Joie de Vivre."
"What's the Joie de Vivre?"
"Our bestselling couples' vibrator. Patented design. They fly off the shelves."
I gulp down the urge to ask him if he's ever tried it. Or better yet, if he'd like to try it with me.
Easy, Penelope. One thing at a time. He's not as casual about sex as you are.
"Forget about me, though," Wolfie says, interrupting my train of thought as he lifts his wineglass. "Congrats again on your big news today."
Although I'm skeptical about toasting a promotion I haven't secured yet, I clink my glass against his. "I hope we're not jinxing it," I murmur into my wine as I take a sip.
Wolfie scoffs. "No way. Not when Spencer already jinxed it for himself by being the world's biggest douche." He pauses to taste his wine, then adds, "That is, assuming he hasn't surprised us all by pulling his head out of his ass."
"Oh, rest assured, he has not. In fact, just wait till I tell you what he did today."
I launch into the story of today's office nightmare, in which Spencer took full credit for a project I slaved over for weeks. As I dramatically reenact our meeting with David, I worry that I'm rambling, but Wolfie seems interested, nodding along and wincing at all the cringe-worthy parts.
"If that jerk doesn't get the ax when you get this promotion, I swear," he mutters once I've finished the story. "Sorry you have to deal with this shit."
"All thanks to nepotism," I say with a sigh. "There's a lot David is willing to turn a blind eye to. So we'll see how things shake out."
Wolfie's chin dips in a firm nod. "I look forward to hearing about it."
"Yeah?" My fork clatters as I set it down on my now empty plate. "You don't mind me yammering on about work?"
He shakes his head. "I love it. You care about it, and I like listening." There's a pause, then he adds under his breath, "Especially to you."
We lock eyes, and my breathing stalls. Every fiber of my being is urging me to lean over the table and kiss him.
But would that be too much? Or worse yet, would it not be enough? There's a very real chance that if I kiss him again, I'll just want more. And I'm not sure he's ready for that yet.
Before I can make up my mind, Wolfie breaks our gaze, pushing up from his chair. "Can I get started on the dishes?"
I audibly sigh. "Sure."
Never in my life have I been so disappointed to have a man volunteering to do chores.
We spend the next half hour working in tandem to get the kitchen clean-him washing dishes, me drying them, then both of us finishing what's left of the rosé. When Wolfie rises from the couch, saying something about it getting late, I know I have no choice but to buck up and broach the subject.
"Before you go . . ."
I reach out to stop him, my fingers brushing against the crook of his elbow. He freezes, pivoting back toward me, but I keep my hand there. I want to touch him. Even if just like this.
"Can we talk about last weekend?"
He swallows hard, his eyes darkening before he averts his gaze. "What do you want to talk about?"
"You know. What happened between us. I just want to be sure you don't, you know. Have any regrets."
He's quiet for too long. I can sense him shrinking away from me, pulling back.
Is he ashamed? Or worse, is he going to pretend that nothing ever happened?
The longer he stares at the floor, the more I feel like I'm about to break. But then a low, breathy chuckle comes out, and he slowly shakes his head, raking his fingers through his chestnut-brown hair.
"I don't regret any of it." The words are directed at my kitchen tile at first, but then his eyes meet mine, a spark of something warm and genuine dancing in them. "Not a single thing."
Relief rushes through me at a dizzying speed. "Really?"
Wolfie shifts closer to me, his fingers brushing my hair behind my ear, then slowly tracing down my cheek. "Yes, really."
He trails a thumb along my lower lip, then leans in and presses a kiss there instead. Then another. And another.
Soon, I'm lost in him again, pressed up on my tiptoes, reaching for every bit of him he'll allow me to take.