Each of his movements showed such quiet power, such attention to detail, it was as if the dough simply belonged in his hands and his hands belonged in the kitchen. The natural way his fingers coaxed everything into place was pure, sensual magic, and she couldn’t look away. What could those hands do to a woman? To her? Teagan flushed and clamped down on the thought, but not before she realized that Adrian wasn’t looking at the pasta dough on the counter. He was looking at her. And he was definitely hungry. “You want to do the honors, then?” His raspy voice found the pit of her belly, low and deep. She’d hated the kitchen on principle for so long that her gut instinct was to shoot back a no. But cooking with Adrian was different, easy in a way that she’d never felt around food before, and instead of giving the no any airtime, she just nodded. “Okay. What do I do?” “Just scoop them up and lay them into the water, one batch at a time.” Adrian handed her what looked like a wire mesh ladle, its intricate, spiny web branching out from the handle like a gaudy silver cloak.
