Only then did I remember.
Yesterday, when I rushed out of the house, I had left the spaghetti Bolognese I made for lunch on the table.
Finnick must have eaten one portion and stored the other in the refrigerator.
The realization made me feel embarrassed.
I stood on my toes, trying to grab the plate from his raised hand.
"You don't have to eat yesterday's leftovers," I said quickly. "Since I'm here, I can cook something fresh for you."
Finnick watched me struggle to reach the plate. Instead of lowering it, the corners of his lips curved slightly.
Then he suddenly leaned closer.
I didn't expect him to move that close.
Startled, I lost my balance and almost stumbled forward.
But before I could fall, Finnick's arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me upright.
"Careful," he said quietly.
His deep voice brushed past my ear.
"There's no need to cook again. I really like your spaghetti."
