A familiar scent drifts through the open downstairs space, wrapping around me like a hug. Chicken, garlic, and something herby. My stomach, which has been protesting at the thought of food since movie popcorn yesterday, gives a low growl.
In the kitchen, Rasmus stands at the stove, stirring a pot with practiced ease. He moves with confidence, completely at home in the space while singing along to ABBA’s greatest hits playing from his phone on the counter. His gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and the sleeves of his fitted red flannel are pushed to his elbows, showcasing his tattooed, muscular forearms. I take a few seconds to admire him. It’s unfair how good he looks doing something so mundane.
But my stomach reminds me that ogling must wait.
“You made soup?” My voice comes out scratchy.
“Chicken noodle. I thought it might help.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
What I want to say is that no other man outside my family has made me feel this cherished. But I don’t.
He shrugs and smiles bashfully, ladling the soup into a bowl. The warmth from the dish seeps into my palms the second I take it from him. “Thanks, Rasmus I-don’t-even-know-your-middle-name Westerholm.”
He leans a hip against the counter, those damn sexy arms crossed, watching me with quiet amusement. “Our friend Google couldn’t answer that question?”
“I didn’t check that far.”
“I actually have two.”
“Of course you do. Let’s hear them.”
His lips twitch. “Rasmus Viktor Mikael Westerholm.”
I carefully sip the soup and hum happily as the flavors hit my taste buds. This is exactly what I needed. “Is there any special meaning behind those names?”
“My grandpa was Viktor, and my dad was Michael, but my mom wanted the Swedish spelling with a k instead of ch.”
“That’s sweet,” I murmur, savoring another spoonful. “This is amazing. Thank you.”
His gaze lingers on me, the stretch of silence between us somehow easy instead of awkward. I’ve never had such an easy silence with someone who wasn’t my family or friends.
“What’s your full name?” Rasmus asks.
“Haisley Hilda Lavigne.”
“Hilda?”
“My first name was supposed to be Paisley, but my mother was so exhausted after giving birth that she called me Haisley instead. And it stuck. Hilda was my dad’s mother, so don’t you dare be mean.”
He chuckles. “I would never. But it’s such an interesting story behind the name of an interesting person.”
I give him a pointed look. “Flattery won’t help you, mister.”
“Worth a shot.”
That’s when I notice a bowl next to the oven filled with batter. A wooden spoon rests inside the dish, and a parchment-lined cookie tray sits nearby.
“You bake?”
His cheeks get some color on them following the question.Is he blushing? No, it can’t be.A slow smile spreads across my face. “Rasmus, are you blushing?”
“No,” he mumbles, giving me his back. “It’s warm in here.”
“Uh-huh. Let me ask again: you bake?”
He rubs the back of his neck and grumbles, “I’m making oatmeal cookies.”
