“Rotini with grilled chicken and a sun-dried tomato parmesan cream sauce,” he tells me with a dismissive wave, and I pause to give him a dry look. “Oh? Just that? Sound less impressed with yourself. Like using sun-dried tomatoes isn’t some Top Chef fancy business.” Thio beams, cheeks pinking; I want to kiss them. But the siren song—siren scent? Siren scent-song—of the pasta is screaming at me. I shovel in a bite. And moan. Gods, do I moan.
