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Sneaking glances as he works, I can see the shift of his biceps and triceps, the bunch of his deltoid, the undulation of his abdominals beneath the snug fit of his sweater. Combine that with mouth-watering aromas rising from the pan and Danny’s utter competence in the kitchen and I’ve been staring at the same page since he entered.

By the time a bowl of chicken pesto pasta drizzled with olive oil and topped with cheese is in front of me, I’ve taken very little in, not even the cursor that blinks at me from the laptop screen.

‘For you, ma’am,’ he murmurs with a cheeky little bow and a flourish of his hands. ‘Get that into you.’

He smiles at me and I can’t help but smile back. I didn’t know I had such a thing for competence, but a man who can cook is ticking all my boxes. Add to that fix a heating problem, mend some rotting stairs and dish out a handful of orgasms and I’m going full kink.

‘I made plenty extra,’ he says as he heads back to the sink and flicks on the faucet. ‘Enough for a couple of takeout containers so you have some meals in the fridge ready to go the next few days.’

Well… hell. Not fair. Good to look at, excellent with his hands and considerate.

He squeezes detergent into the water and I realise I’m being rude. The man just cooked for me; the least I can do is show some appreciation. ‘Danny… stop.’ I reach across the table and grab up the mess of papers. ‘Sit,’ I say, stacking them in a neat-ish pile on top of the textbooks, which I push to one side. ‘Grab some. Eat with me.’

‘Nah.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’ll just clean up and leave you to your study.’

I sigh. His understanding only makes me feel shittier about ignoring him. Or trying to, anyway. ‘Come on, please? I should take a proper break from all this so why not join me?’

I suddenly feel desperate that he doesn’t leave. Having him here in my kitchen has been distracting, yes, but also quite… homey? Something I haven’t realised I’ve been missing. I’ve lived by myself for the past two years, and the company – having someone nearby indulging in the purely domestic duty of cooking a meal – has been unexpectedly nice.

It reminds me of doing my homework around the dinner table with my brother and sister, my father – the chef in our house – whipping up something delicious smelling, my mother helping us if needed in between packing orders for her Tupperware gig she did for years to bring in extra money to our barely-getting-by household.

Having Danny in my kitchen, I realise, feels like family.

‘Well, it looks pretty good, even if I do say so myself,’ he says with a slow smile, then reaches into the wall cupboard and grabs a bowl.

I take my first bite of pasta as he sits his ass in the chair opposite me so I won’t ogle the way his jeans pull taut across his quads. And I am in gastronomic heaven. Earthy flavours of garlic, onion and basil mix with the tartness of lemon, the sharpness of parmesan and the succulent juiciness of the chicken, which practically melts in my mouth.

My eyes flutter closed on a low, satisfied moan. I can’t help myself. It’s that good. As they flutter open again, I find his eyes on me, on my mouth, and everything inside me shivers in the best kind of way. ‘Mmm,’ I murmur after I align enough brain cells to form words. ‘Amazing.’

I expect some kind of smug, cocky rejoinder, but he merely nods. ‘Good. Eat up.’

I shove my fork into the bowl. ‘How’s the arm?’ I ask as I spear pasta. He’s pushed his sweater sleeves up and I can see the small adhesive dressing that covers his sutures.

‘All good. I have an appointment in a few days to get the stitches out.’

I nod as I take my first bite and then I don’t say anything else. It’s delicious and I devour it in no time at all. I am done and his bowl is still half full. I give an embarrassed half laugh as I place my fork in the bowl. ‘Sorry, I was hungrier than I thought.’

He shakes his head. ‘Don’t apologise. I like a woman who knows how to eat.’

My insides loop-the-loop at his suggestive words and I search his gaze for any sexual innuendo, but he returns his attention to his food with only the merest smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Where’d you learn to cook like that?’

Danny smiles around a mouthful of pasta. ‘Bob.’

I blink. ‘Bob?’

I know they’re related but I didn’t realise Danny and Bob knew each other that well. The older man had never mentioned Danny prior to him arriving, although I suppose whilst friendly, Bob isn’t exactly chatty.

‘How? I’m pretty sure he has Uber Eats on speed dial.’ I’ve spoken to enough drivers on their way to Bob’s apartment to assume that cooking isn’t one of his skills.

Danny shrugs. ‘It’s harder to be motivated when you’re cooking for one.’

Oof. Isn’t that the truth? When do I ever cook for myself? Properly cook, like Danny has cooked for me today? ‘Yeah.’

As if he knows I’m talking about myself he asks, ‘Do you cook?’

I laugh at the suggestion. Cooking takes time I don’t have. ‘I’m more into food… construction.’

‘Oh yeah?’ He raises two eyebrows. ‘What does that mean?’