She looked ridiculous.
But she was warm.
After toweling off her hair, she’d braided it quickly so it wouldn’t keep dripping water down her back.
The kitchen light spilled across the floor ahead of her, and the smell tantalized her before she even reached the doorway. Garlic and tomatoes mixed into a rich aroma that made her stomach growl.
She stepped into the kitchen and stopped cold.
Wow.
Adam stood with his back to her, stirring a pot on the stove, having obviously changed clothes. Dry jeans fit low on his hips, and a dark T-shirt stretched across his muscled shoulders. His feet were bare against the worn wooden floor, and the kitchen light caught the damp edges of his hair where it curled at the back of his neck.
The sight spiked her pulse. For a moment she simply watched him.
The kitchen suited him the same way the rest of the house did, solid and practical and comfortable. Open shelves held mismatched dishes and mugs. Beneath the window sat a widefarmhouse sink that looked out over a creek barely visible through the storm. To the right, a small country table rested in an alcove, already set with plates and silverware. A bottle of red wine waited open beside two glasses.
The man had cooked dinner for her.
Adam glanced over his shoulder. His gaze slid down the length of the oversized shirt and rolled sweats before returning to her face. It lingered just long enough that warmth crept up the back of her neck.
“Well,” he said, amusement slipping into his voice, “those fit exactly how I expected.”
Bianca pushed away from the doorway and limped toward the table to sit. “I’m wonderfully content,” she said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Adam turned back to the stove, stirring the sauce once more before draining a pot of pasta in the sink. Steam filled the kitchen for a moment, carrying the scent of garlic and herbs.
Bianca rested her elbows on the table and watched him. “You can cook?”
“Well enough to eat once in a while.” He plated the spaghetti, then carried the dishes to the table and set one in front of her. The sauce was thick and red, dotted with bits of tomato and herbs. “How about you?”
“I love to cook,” she admitted. “Lately I haven’t had much time to do so. In fact, I’d love to—” She cut herself off.
Adam sat across from her and poured wine into both glasses. “Love to what? I won’t judge.”
Instinct told her he wouldn’t judge her. What was it about this guy? From the first second she’d met him, she’d felt depths in him. Not that he hid anything about himself. That was rare anywhere, much less in the world she lived in right now. Hollywood.
“I’d love to have a greenhouse and grow my own vegetables and herbs,” she said finally. “Maybe even some fruit.” Her face warmed.
“Cool.” He nudged a bowl of grated Parmesan toward her. “Add this.”
Cool? That was it? No teasing. No comment about her living in Los Angeles. Just acceptance. She sprinkled some cheese on the dish, twirled a forkful of pasta, and took a bite. The sauce was rich and perfect. She pointed her fork at him. “You’re lying.”
Adam draped one arm across the back of the neighboring chair. “About?”
“You’re a fantastic cook.”
His mouth curved slowly. “I’d like to impress you, but I bought the sauce from Mrs. Hudson. She sells all sorts of glazes and jams, and I’m a repeat customer. Eat before it gets cold.”
She obeyed. Outside, thunder rolled across the hills again, softer now but still present. Rain continued to drum steadily against the roof. For a few minutes they ate in comfortable silence. Eventually the plates were empty, and the quiet between them shifted into a definite warmth.
Adam stood and moved around the table. He crouched beside her chair, his bare foot brushing the table leg as he reached for the rolled cuff of the sweatpants. “All right. Let’s take a look at that knee.”
Her breath caught as his fingers brushed her calf.
He lifted the fabric slowly, exposing her knee. The bruise had spread while she showered, dark purple bleeding into deep blue beneath the skin. The swelling made the joint look stiff and tight. Adam studied it carefully, his brow furrowing. Then his hands moved gently along the sides of the joint.
Heat spiraled through her, and not the painful kind. His fingers were warm and calloused. A little rough. “I’m okay,” she said, though her voice came out thinner than she intended.