“Yup.”

I laugh some more, shake my head, and step into his apartment. I grab him by the hand as he shuts the door behind me and lead him to the kitchen, where I wet a paper towel and start wiping away at his face. He just stands there, letting me take care of him. The paper towel rubs against the hard scruff covering his jaw, and I realize he hasn’t shaved.

“Growing a beard?” I ask, finishing up.

“I have to if I want to be a Saint Bernard in your eyes. None of this greyhound shit.”

“You can’t be serious.” I chuckle.

“So serious.” He winks, then takes the paper towel from me and tosses it in the trash. “Thanks for soothing my distraught baking heart. I had all these hopes of proving something to you, but I just proved that I suck at this.”

“Just a learning curve, that’s all.” I hold up the goulash. “Shall we?”

“Yeah, let me go change my shirt, give my face a good rinse, and I’ll be right out. Think you can handle grabbing some bowls for us? I got some more drinks in the fridge this time.”

“Sure. Should I just dig around in the cabinets?”

“Have at it,” he says as he takes off toward his bedroom.

Have at it. Simple as that. Like we’re longtime friends.

Okay.

I set the goulash down and turn toward his cabinets. Where would he put bowls?

I reach for a cabinet that I would consider a bowl cabinet, and I’m pleasantly surprised when I find them on my first try. Means he has a good sense for organization. I find spoons right off the bat as well and take everything to the table, along with a large serving spoon and napkins.

Drinks are next.

I open the fridge, and I’m surprised again to see that it’s stocked full of Sprite, strawberry Bubly, and cans of my favorite blackberry-lime sparkling tea. Suspicious, because these are all my favorite drinks.

“Find what you need?” Alec asks as he walks back into the kitchen quicker than I anticipated. The sugar is out of his scruff, and he’s wearing an olive-green shirt that makes his eyes stand out even more against his incredibly dark eyelashes.

Yup, he’s handsome. Stupidly handsome. The kind of handsome that makes your hands clammy and your stomach flip in a million summersaults.

“Uh, hard to choose.” I try to gather my wits about me. “This fridge seems to be carrying all my favorites.”

He shrugs. “Saw you drinking them on set.” He reaches past me, his cologne wrapping me up in his sweet and spicy scent.

“You got me my favorite drinks?”

“Yeah.” He cracks open a Sprite. “Why not? You’re doing me a huge favor—it’s the least I can do. Plus, it’s nice seeing that smile.” He nods and then walks over to the table, where he starts scooping goulash into the bowls.

Umm . . . pardon me as I attempt to catch my breath.

He likes my smile? I shouldn’t feel giddy over that, but I really freaking do. So giddy it’s embarrassing.

Before I let out all the cold air in his fridge, I grab a Sprite as well and shut it, and then join him at the table.

“I’ve never had goulash before,” he admits with a boyish grin. “Does that make me an uncultured swine?”

I snort and shake my head. “Just means you’re not hanging out with the right people. Don’t worry, I’ll change that.”

We both take a seat, and Alec dips a spoon in his pasta, blows on it, and takes a bite. I watch as his eyes light with interest and the corners of his mouth turn up. “Hell, this is good, Luna.”

Pride surges through me, just from a little compliment. I didn’t know how much I wanted to impress him until this very moment.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say after eating my own spoonful.

“Not just like it, love it.” He takes another bite and then asks, “Is this your own recipe or something that’s been passed down? From generation to generation?”

“My mom taught me how to make it when I was seven.”

“Seven?” He looks surprised.

“I was eager. It’s a family favorite. Straight from my nonna’s recipe book. Although, she would use homemade sauce. I cheat in that regard.”

“Tell me more, Luna.” His eyes command my attention and strip me bare as I feel myself wanting to tell him everything.

Clearing my throat, I say, “My mom would serve it every Sunday night. The smell floating from the kitchen into the living room, where Cohen and I would be playing a board game, became so familiar that I wanted to help create it. Technically the dish is supposed have beef in it.” I smile. “But when I became in charge of Sunday-night dinner, I gave it my own twist by adding buffalo as well. I think it adds a richer flavor.”

“Bold.” Cohen smiles. “How did your parents take the change?”

“Dad was skeptical at first. He’s not much for change when it comes to his meals, hence the Sunday-night goulash, but he gave it a shot.”

“Let me guess—he loved it.”

“Says it’s the best he’s ever had.” I can’t contain my smile. “It’s not traditional goulash by any means, but it’s the Rossi Way, and that’s all that matters.”

He holds a spoonful up to me. “Well, I like the Rossi Way. It’s fucking delicious.”

“Thank you.” I can’t help feeling flustered by his intense gaze and the way fucking rolled off his tongue so easily. He doesn’t seem to swear much, but hearing it just now was incredibly sexy.

“I buy us tacos, and you bring over an amazing homemade pasta dish. I need to step up my game.”

“Do you know how to cook?” I ask, realizing he probably didn’t have anyone to teach him growing up.

“A little.” He sighs and shakes his head. “This is going to sound really pathetic, especially after the story you just told me.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“It is, trust me.” He lifts a brow. “I lived off takeout until two years ago, when I hired a personal chef to actually show me the basics of cooking. We were never taught when we were young, so I knew nothing when it came to the kitchen . . . hence my baking fiascos. But I was sick of takeout, so I decided to learn a thing or two. I’m no master chef at all. I know the basics of an omelet, grilling, and roasting veggies. But that’s the extent.”

“Why would I think that’s pathetic?”

“Because.” He stirs his spoon and then scoops up some pasta. “You actually had someone teach you—someone who loves you. Your family is wonderfully connected. I’m sure if I’d paid the chef enough, he would have pretended to be my father, teaching me the ways of the kitchen, but it was just a stranger.”

“That’s not pathetic, and it’s not your fault, Alec. At least you decided to learn and made it happen. That says more than just hiring the personal chef to do all the work.”

“When I burn my chicken in the oven, I often think about how much easier it would be if I’d hired a chef.” He chuckles and then takes another bite. When he swallows, he says, “Is it weird that I feel intimidated by you?”

“What? No, you don’t.”

He nods slowly and meets my gaze. “Hell yeah, I do. Very intimidated.”

I nudge him with my foot under the table. “I’m not an intimidating person. I might have been a little brash out of the gate—”

“That’s not it,” he says. “It’s your optimism, your knowledge, the way you effortlessly love your brother, and your thirst for life. It makes me want so much more than the life I’m living now.” He chuckles and pushes his hand through his hair. “Christ, there’s something about you that makes me get way too chatty.”

“I like it,” I say quietly. “I like flipping over the cover and seeing what’s inside.”

“About time,” he says with a wink before scooping up the last of his goulash and emptying his bowl.

“You left the butter out,” I say, surprised.

“I do read directions on occasion.” He laughs and then nudges me with his shoulder, the playful gesture adding to my already-heightened senses.

That miniscule, tiny, itty-bitty crush I was talking about? Yeah, pretty sure it’s grown over the last two days.

“You might read instructions, but you don’t operate the machinery properly.”

“Not quite.” He chuckles. “But I’m a good student, so teach me your ways.”

“Do you happen to have a hand mixer?”

“Uh, I have this.” He points to the KitchenAid mixer. “It has other attachments.”

I laugh. “I know. But I prefer a hand mixer when making frosting. I feel like you can get a better whip, and you have more control. Lucky for you, I brought mine just in case.”

While I grab it from my purse, Alec slow claps for me. “Travels with own hand mixer. That’s really impressive, Luna.”

“If anything, I’m prepared. And I know for certain the set will have both, so when you’re making the cake, be sure to use the stand mixer for the batter and the hand mixer for the frosting.”

“I can do that.”

I hold up the mixer. He goes to plug it in, but I stop him with my hand to his forearm. He looks at our connection for a brief moment before I say, “Always put the beaters on first, because if it’s plugged in, and you put on the beaters and accidentally switch the mixer on at the same time, you’re going to have some gnarly hands.”