Page 86 of Grizz

“I might,” I mutter, leaning in to inhale again, because the aroma is insane.“It is absolutely incredible.”

He does this thing where his shoulders shift like he’s uncomfortable with praise.Like a compliment is a puck he doesn’t know where to put.“Roasted chicken’s in the oven,” he says, changing the subject.“Just needs a couple minutes.”

“You roasted a chicken.”

He looks at me, deadpan.“That’s what I said.”

I blink.“Who are you and what have you done with Grizz McAvoy?”

He snorts, turning back to the pan.“Relax.I didn’t make a soufflé.”

“Don’t say soufflé like you know what that is,” I shoot back.

He points the spoon at me without turning fully around.“You want to eat or you want to interrogate me?”

“Both,” I say instantly.

He laughs again, low and quick, and it stirs emotions inside me, a warm tug that makes me feel like I’m standing too close to something I didn’t mean to touch.

He scoops the sautéed vegetables into a bowl, tosses the pasta in a quick sheen of oil, then opens the oven.He pulls the roasting pan forward with a towel and I catch a glimpse of golden skin, browned edges, juices bubbling at the bottom.

I swear my mouth waters.

He shuts the oven, sets the pan down, and finally turns fully toward me.“Don’t look so shocked,” he says.“I can take care of myself.”

“I’m not shocked you can take care of yourself,” I say.“I’m shocked you can take care of…a meal.”

His gaze scans my face, then down to my mouth.“I should kiss that mouth to get you to shut up.”

“That would work for me,” I reply, breathless at the thought of his mouth on mine.

Instead, his eyes twinkle as he grins at me.“Later.But now… we eat.”He shifts back into motion, plating like a man who refuses to linger in a moment that might mean something.

I hover near the drawer with the cutlery.

“Where do you keep—” I start.

“Second drawer,” he says without looking.“Forks on the left.”

“Youknowwhere your forks are,” I say, impressed.

He glances at me over his shoulder.“It’s my apartment.”

“Yes, but men like you usually just grab whatever utensil is closest and call it a day.”

He gives me that look.“Men like me?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” he says, but he’s smiling now, like he does when he’s about to needle me.“Explain it.”

I open the drawer, pull out two forks, two knives.“Men like you are supposed to live on protein shakes and ramen.And instead, I find that you’ve put significant effort into an amazing meal for me.It’s definitely out of character, not that I’m complaining.In fact, I very much appreciate it.”

“Well, you’re welcome.”He lets out a short laugh, then says, “But let’s be honest… I toiled in the kitchen and I wasn’t even sure if you were going to show up.”

I duck my head, forcing a bland expression.“Whatever do you mean by that?”

I risk a glance his way and find him leaning against the counter, casual on the surface, eyes penetrating.“Let’s just say you’ve got a history.”