Page 71 of You'll Love it Here

After he clears our plates, he holds out his glass for a toast and our cups clink.

“To your favorite customer,” I announce.

“Not true.” Sami lowers his voice. “You’re more than that to me.”

His eyes run over mine and it feels like I’ve never beenseenbefore.

A rush flutters in my chest.

He sets his glass back onto the table and bends closer. I can’t pull back, even though I’m fully aware what I’m doing. Whatwe’redoing.

And it’s automatic, like ink spreading over paper, as he bends closer and I tilt to him. Our glasses are left on the table and our lips lock

I have to stop. It’s not fair to him.

Except it doesn’t matter when his lips touch mine.

It’s brief, just a quick brush. He pulls back an inch, exhaling softly, and I feel his eyes sweeping over me. I realize mine have closed. I hold very still, taking shallow breaths. I feel the warmth of him nudge closer again, and our noses brush against each other. His hands come to my shoulders.

His lips touch mine again. And then press closer. To feel more.

And every step of the way I tell myself I should stop. But then—his hands, his mouth, the way he says my name—each touch pulls me deeper, makes the lie harder to hold.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Like time doesn’t exist when I’m with him. Like I’m allowed to justbe—no masks, no weight, just... me. And the way he looks at me—like I’m something precious, like I’m wanted—it undoes me.

My body melts in his arms, and for once, I let it. I let myself disappear into him, into the feeling I didn’t know was possible.

I let myself fall apart.

The Morning After

I wake up in Sami’s bed, wrapped under a giant blanket. I nudge myself up onto my forearms and look around at his things. In the corner is a shelf filled with an impressive collection of cookbooks. I grin when to my delight I notice the spine forMicrowave Cooking for One. Sami must’ve taken it from the little library.

His nightstand is overflowing with used notebooks and journals with handwritten, dog-eared pages.

Sami shifts beside me, rising to see what I’m looking at. “What do you write in there?” I ask.

“Mostly things about my customers. Their orders, their favorite dishes, stuff like that.”

My eyes widen. “Are you sherious?”

He nods and continues, “Their hopes and their dreams. Whether they’d survive a zombie apocalypse. Who among them I would die for. You know—the usual.” He wags his brows. “I plan to compile all the data to choose an heir for my restaurant empire. You just earned yourself some major points last night.”

I jab him in the ribs with my pointer finger.

He cups my hand. “Okay, it’s just recipes.” He grins and leans closer to me, nose tickling the shell of my ear. “I should get a real system for them.”

“I like your place,” I whisper. His entire home exudes this warm, lived-in charm, the kind that comes from decades of family life layered together. Compared to my own space, even the simpletouches—like plants in the windows and art adorning the walls—are enough to leave me impressed. There’s an emphasis on comfort, with lots of thick rugs, warm wood tones, and soft blankets. I burrow deeper into his pillow and add, “Ireallylike your bed.”

I guess I always pictured him living in one apartment with his parents, but above the restaurant stairwell is a hallway that splits into two separate units. Apparently Sami’s family rented this place out to various tenants through the years before Sami took over the rental. So at least I don’t have to worry about Abu and Ava coming home and seeing us.

Sami reaches for his phone on the nightstand and reads something. “Abu is handling opening this morning.” He rolls back to me, his warm lips brushing my temple. “But unfortunately, we have to take Ernest out. I’ll make us coffee.”

“You can’t make me leave.” I curl closer to him, underneath the ditch of his shoulder. If I leave this bed, if I leave the warmth of his arms, if I leave the coziness of his apartment...

He pulls one of my hands into his own, interlocking our fingers. I point to a scar on his wrist. “What happened here?”

“Kitchen guy things,” he murmurs. I’ve noticed he never refers to himself as a chef.