“Are you Italian?” I asked, noticing the way he twirled the pasta onto his fork with expert precision.
“No,” he chuckled, watching me and waiting for me to start eating.
“What are you then?”
He melted into a soft smile, holding the big bowl of pasta in one hand. “You’re very curious. You know this isn’t a cross-examination, right?”
“We can make it one if you want,” I proposed, salivating at the prospect of trying the pasta. “You can ask me things too. If you respond to some of my questions.”
But then I placed a forkful of the pasta on my tongue and the flavors all but exploded in my mouth. Either I’d been starving, or this was the best bowl of pasta in the universe. The slightly burnt garlic, the soft cannellini beans, the delicious carbs—
I settled back into the chair and shut my eyes.
“You like it?”
I nodded, still with my eyes closed, a little embarrassed by my own reaction to a simple meal. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t the food.
It was theeffort.
No one had ever cooked anything so…indulgent for me before. My father would cook when I was younger, but it was always transactional.Food’s in the fridge. Get yourself some dinner,he would say on the phone while staying late at the office every night.
I took another bite, concentrating on the way the flavors seeped into my taste buds. And then one more forkful.
“What do you think of the sauce?”
I couldn’t open my mouth to respond to him because I was too immersed. Too busy chewing the garlic, sucking the pasta into my mouth, and slurping on the sauce.
Gorging on this moment.
Without a word, Alex served me more. “Have you been starving here all this time?” he asked, his tone tinged with concern.
“Nuh-uh,” I mumbled through the food stuffed into my cheeks and my unstoppable smile. “I know how to cook. I just didn’t realize villains were professional chefs too.”
“You think I’m the villain?” he asked, curious and amused, keeping his eyes on me.
I shot my gaze to his, my mouth full. “Mm-hmm! You kidnapped me and locked me up in this house!”
“Would a villain cook you homemade pasta though?”
Alex finished his bowl and leaned against the counter, the sight of him so homey and domestic in the kitchen ravaging my soul.
Washe the villain?
I looked down at whatever was left over in my bowl and no longer had any clear idea of anything.
“More?”
I felt drunk—like I’d taken a few shots of tequila. Was it the pasta? Or Alex in sweatpants?
“I’m full. Villains make good food. Thank you.” Heat crept up my neck and I merely stole a glance at him, deciding it was safer to look away.
Suddenly, it was very quiet between us. I sat on the chair, and Alex stood in the kitchen with his arms crossed, as if we didn’t know how to move forward now.
One second.
Two.
Five.