Mister Romance Amelia Simone (english books to improve english txt) 📖

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop. I was trying to send myself the picture of you in that dress. And I came across this.”

He held up the phone, playing the video from my pole dancing class.

Chapter 19 - Tamra

My stomach sank. I should have deleted the video if I didn’t want anyone to see it. First rule of phones. I wasn’t ashamed of the video, but I was still a work in progress on the dance floor, and it wasn’t something I planned to share. I glanced from the still to his expression. It was warm. Some would say steamy. No judgement. His blue eyes were lit with interest under his shaggy hair.

I smiled, then dropped my gaze to the dress in my arms. “Yeah, I’ve been taking a studio class. It’s a lot of fun.”

“It was fun to watch. You look gorgeous. You’ve got me thinking all kinds of things.” His gaze moved off to the distance.

What did that mean?

“What kind of things?” See? He wasn’t the only one with no verbal filter.

I held my breath waiting for Chase’s answer. My fledgling dance moves hadn’t been intended for anyone’s eyes but mine, but now that he’d seen the video, I couldn’t resist asking. Hopefully he wouldn’t realize how much hinged on his reply. I’d been feeling a growing sexual tension between us, but did he feel it too?

His blue eyes moved back to mine. “Plotting things.”

“Oh.”

I was disappointed that his thoughts weren’t about me. I’d half expected him to ask for a private demonstration. My feelings for Chase were becoming more than friendly, but that didn’t mean he felt the same. He didn’t flinch when I told him what was on my mind. That was a rare quality in a man, and one I admired. But it didn’t mean he felt anything other than friendship. I’d thought his eyes gleamed with more than good humor during our little costume party, but he’d been thinking of work, not me.

“Did you get what you needed from our shopping trip?” I asked.

His blue eyes darkened; I was sure of it. His heavy-lidded expression intensified as he pushed up from his seat and advanced toward me. My heart beat faster as he reached out a finger and ran it down the fabric clutched in my hands.

“Silky,” he husked.

Heat flushed through me at the thought of that finger stroking my skin instead of the dress I carried. All thoughts of my earlier question fled.

“Excuse me,” a woman said loudly. The mother and her tween daughter brushed past us with armfuls of clothes and into a dressing room, breaking the mood.

Chase shifted his weight and ran a hand through his hair. He cleared his throat. His chipper tone when he spoke belied his gruff tone earlier. “Yep. Great research. I learned a lot. Thanks for letting me come.”

He bit his lip, and I wondered if I was the only one feeling achy at the word “come.”

I paid for the dress and Chase drove us back to my place to start dinner. I thought I’d feel awkward with a strange man in my space, but Chase took command of the kitchen and kept me too busy to worry about being alone together after our charged moment in the dressing room.

Chase pulled blue nitrile gloves from his bag of supplies and snapped them.

“You’re going to want these,” he said.

“I’m not giving a cervical exam.”

“They’re for the butternut squash.”

“You want me to examine the butternut squash?” I asked.

“No, I want to save your hands.” He picked up my right hand, cradling my fingers gently with his. He smiled and tingles raced through my body at the contact. “Butternuts cause allergic reactions in a lot of people. I don’t want you to have itchy, uncomfortable hands later.”

Whelp. Other parts of me were suddenly feeling itchy and uncomfortable at his nearness, but in a totally, non-allergy way. I cleared my throat. He squeezed my hand, then let it go.

“Put them on. You’ll thank me later.”

I shrugged. “No glove, no love.”

“Now you sound like one of my reviewers.”

Chase chuckled, and talk turned to books and reviewers while I peeled and chopped the butternut and other vegetables.

We made the pasta dough recipe while the butternut roasted. Chase stood close, his warm body dwarfing mine at the counter as we worked over the mixer. Butterflies flitted through my chest as he brushed up against me when he showed me how to feed the dough into the machine. I blurted out the first thing I could think of.

“Chase, this is an impressive pasta attachment.”

The reverberation of his laugh traveled through my body where we touched.

“Nice of you to notice.”

I glanced up and couldn’t resist adding, “It’s not every guy who has a pasta attachment this nice. How’d you get into cooking?”

Chase’s face lit with fondness. “Jimmy’s grandma.”

“Jimmy?”

“My good friend growing up. I practically lived at his grandma’s house. It always smelled so good, and after soccer practice it was also full of food.”

“So, everything a growing boy needs?”

He smiled. “Exactly. Grandma T was a great cook, but we didn’t eat for free. She made us help.”

I could picture a gangly Chase helping an older woman around the kitchen. She must have been a great teacher, because Chase’s joy in cooking showed in his gentle manipulation of the pasta dough.

It took a glass of wine, but we eventually had an impressive pile of beautiful little pillows of doughy goodness. My kitchen smelled heavenly thanks to the sage and roasted squash. I beamed with pride at our pasta babies. They were cute and perfect. If only I could avoid destroying them while they cooked. Chase worked on the sauce while I tended the boiling pasta. He hummed a happy song while he stirred, and I smiled. My tiny kitchen should have felt too small for us both, but we flowed around each other gracefully. Warmth flowed through me at our quiet companionship. When the dish was complete, I plated it and we sat down to