She snorted, stirring the tomato sauce. “Maybe I’ve been waiting for you to stop jabbering all the time so I could get a story in edgewise, hmm?”

“Hey, if you don’t like the conversation, you can always kick me out and invite your friend over, subject her to whatever experiment it is you have going there.” He struggled to keep a straight face so she’d rise to the bait. Sure enough, she planted one hand on a curvy hip and glared at him.

Stacia should take her shopping every day if it gave her this kind of spark. It wasn’t the better-fitting, dark-wash jeans, or even the subtle drape of the silky deep-green shirt that hugged Andra’s waist and didn’t drown her breasts in extra fabric. It was the shine in her eyes, the way every smile didn’t seem to have to fight its way onto her lips.

“Are you ready to hear the theory behind my magic, or are you going to keep making fun of me?”

“Oh, I’m ready for the magic to show up. I just kinda doubt it’s going to happen with your tin-can sauce there.”

She pointed the spoon at him. “Watch it, Delisle. Anyway, you said the secret to your mama’s spaghetti sauce was Italian sausage, lots of garlic, and a little bit of brown sugar.”

That and newly roasted tomatoes, fresh herbs, and about eight more spices, but if he didn’t want that spoon upside the head, he probably shouldn’t point it out. “Uh-huh.”

“I figured I could make it a ton quicker with canned sauce as long as I used fresh garlic, and I remembered I had big, soft cloves of garlic in a restaurant once . . .” She paused dramatically, her smile tugging a matching one onto his face. Until she picked up an unpeeled bunch of garlic and tossed it in the pot of boiling water.

“Oh!” He reached out to stop her, but it was too late.

“What?”

“I, ah . . . I guess I thought that water was for the pasta.” He tried not to look at the waterlogged garlic.

“It is.” She grinned. “Once the garlic is soft enough to put in the sauce, we’ll reuse the water and have garlic-flavored noodles.” She tipped her chin up. “Admit it, LJ.”

He must not have covered his horror at her culinary butchery well enough. “Admit what?”

“My spaghetti is going to be better than your mama’s.”

“No way.”

She advanced on him, pointing with the spoon. “Say, ‘Cassandra Lawler, you have won, and I’m going to text my mama right now to tell her we’ve been out-spaghettied.’”

He raised his hands. “Girl, you’re talking crazy.”

She clucked her tongue and went back to the stove. “Kicking your ass is what I’m doing.” She stirred the sauce.