She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Yet here we are. Married, both of us uneasy about the other.”

“I don’t believe you’ll kill me in my sleep,” he told her.

She grinned.

“You don’t wear orange . . . remember?” he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Orange is the new black.”

Gabi and Meg sat with their heads together, their ears tuned into the noise drifting from the kitchen.

“That’s not right. Do it again.”

“I’m not a cook, Mrs. Masini,” Hunter said for the umpteenth time in the last half an hour.

When Gabi had peeked into her mother’s space, flour covered the entire counter and half the floor. A telltale sign that pasta was in progress. Or at least a mix of flour and eggs. There was no guarantee anyone would be eating anything at this rate.

“Crack the egg gently.”

When Gabi’s mom groaned, Meg started to giggle. “I wish I had a camera set up in there.” Meg stretched her neck in an attempt to see inside the mess.

“Do it again.”

Meg nudged Gabi’s arm. “How long are you going to let that continue?”

Gabi sat back, crossed her legs. “I have nowhere I need to be.”

“No, no, no.” Simona lowered her tone. “Pretend the egg is a fragile woman, not a twist top on a beer.”

Gabi and Meg held their breath and waited . . .

“Better. Now, three more eggs.”

Silence.

Sigh.

Silence.

“Damn it!” Hunter’s patience had to be at an end.

Gabi pushed off the couch. “Distract my mother.”

“You’re going to rescue him?” Meg asked.

“I did throw him in the dark waters of my mother’s kitchen. I think he’s learned his lesson.”

The two of them entered the kitchen at the same time. Meg instantly started to laugh.

Hunter stood over the sink, his hands dripping with raw eggs and flour.

Gabi’s mother was scooping a mound of flour off the counter.

Hunter snapped his eyes to Gabi, causing her to step back. “Maybe I should—”

“Help?” her mother offered. “This husband of yours is useless.”

Meg pushed around Hunter, patted his arm with understood sympathy.

Meg moved to Simona’s side and nudged her away. “How about a break?”

Simona looked between the two women. “Don’t you do it for him, Gabriella. He needs to learn.”

“Yes, Mama. Why don’t you rest?” Gabi pushed the open bottle of wine in her mother’s direction before Meg led her out of the kitchen.

Gabi and Hunter were still until they heard the door to the outside patio open and close.

Hunter’s shoulders slumped. “Your mother is the kitchen Nazi.”

It felt good to laugh.

Hunter wasn’t amused. “You set me up.”

Gabi tossed her hands in the air. “Guilty. Serves you right for pretending to be able to cook crepes.” She found a clean apron and tied it around her waist.

Hunter made to remove his and she stopped him. “Not so fast, Wall Street. I told my mother I would help you . . . not do it for you.”

“I don’t cook.”

She stepped close and turned on the faucet to wash her hands. “Stop whining.” She wasn’t sure exactly where her confidence came from . . . maybe it was the mass of flour that covered the front of Hunter’s apron and most of his shirt. Maybe the smudge on his cheek, the lock of hair drifting into his eyes . . . or maybe seeing him completely out of his element empowered her.

He untied his apron.

She snapped a finger in his direction. “Put that back on.”

“Oh, God . . . the kitchen Nazi’s spawn.”

“I can call my mother back in.”

“You’re pushing me, Gabi.”

She shrugged. “What are you going to do, divorce me?”

He moaned.

“Exactly. Besides . . .” she found a clean, empty bowl, “my mother won’t let up until you master a few steps.”

His eyes followed her as she completed the mountain of flour and punched a fist-size crater in the center for the raw eggs.

“Let me guess.” She picked up an egg with one hand. “My mother showed you like this.” With a gentle crack, Gabi opened the shell and slid the egg into the flour with one hand and a tiny flourish of her wrist.

Hunter sighed. “You make it look easy.”

She smiled, moved close to his side, and handed over an egg. “Use two hands and crack it into the bowl. That way you don’t ruin what you’ve started if the shell decides it wants to be part of our dinner.”

He hit the side of the bowl too hard, the egg spilled on the counter, the shell in the bowl. “I look like a fool.”

“You look like you’re trying too hard.”

She rinsed the bowl, retrieved another egg. “Place your hands over mine.”

Hunter moved closer, the heat of his body seeping between them. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.

Digging for the confidence that was there a moment ago, she attempted to ignore Hunter’s large shoulders and spicy scent. When his hands covered hers, dwarfing them instantly, she shuddered.

Crack the egg.

“Slow and easy,” she told him.

His hands where a whisper above hers while she cracked and separated the shell from the yolk.

Hunter didn’t pull away when she moved to release the shell and dump the perfect egg into the flour.

Attempting to ignore his silent presence, and refusing to look into his face, she handed him an egg.