"You're welcome."
"Thanks for the wine, by the way. It's one of my favorites," I said as I eyed the bottle, wanting to see if he'd admit to messaging Fiona to ask for wine-selection help.
"Oh? Is it?" He sounded genuinely surprised. He was a good liar. If I hadn't known better, I would have believed his surprise.
I faced him, my hand on my hip. "Professor Simmons, I know for a fact you asked Fiona for help picking out this wine."
"Help is such a strong word," he hedged, wrinkling his nose and fighting a guilty laugh.
"You're a stinker." I sent him a mock-chastising look, also fighting my laughter.
"Speaking of stinking, you know what doesn't stink? Dinner. Seriously, what is that?" Matt had followed me into the kitchen even though there was hardly enough room for one person.
"It's coconut curry."
"Coconut is my favorite," he moaned, peeking around me as I opened the crockpot.
I tried to affect the same tone of voice he'd used about the wine. "Oh? Is it?"
"First the cookies, now this. Who told you?" Matt placed his hand on my back, trying to lean over the crockpot. His proximity and the deepening of his voice sent involuntary tingles shivering down my spine.
He is just so . . . sigh.
I stiffened.
Oh no.
We can't have that.
"None of your business." I didn't shift away from him, but every muscle in my body was tense. "But do you know what is your business? The scatterplots on the table." I needed him to leave the kitchen ASAP so I could put a cover on whatever was causing my unanticipated sexy-feels to boil over.
Taking the hint-thank God-Matt left my diminutive galley kitchen. Stealing a look at him, I conducted a quick survey of the good professor.
Yep. Still hot.
"Is this where you eat?" he asked, eyeing the small café-style table.
I had to clear my throat before speaking. "Yes. Nothing bigger will fit in that space."
That's what she said . . . dammit.
"Yeah, I can see that. It'd be too tight."
Jeez, I had a dirty mind. "I-uh-left my notes just there, next to the printouts. Do you mind going through and noting corrections?"
"Sure. No problem," he said, throwing me an easy grin.
"Thanks." I returned his grin, then turned back to my food prep, my heart fluttering.
This wasn't good. These . . . feelings weren't a good idea. I'd had many male friends over the course of my life and I'd lost a few when one-sided feelings got in the way. Sometimes I was on the side of the unrequited crush, sometimes they were.
We weren't even really friends yet, and I was already sabotaging it by having urges.
Work-his research and my requests for clarifications-dominated discussions over dinner. Well, his research and the transcendently deliciousness of dinner.
Clearly, his work was his first passion, with food coming in a close second.
I could've listened to him talk about Turing, and the revolutionary research being done with Google's DeepMind-and how to write learning algorithms for artificial intelligence-all night. He was different when he spoke about it, earnest and confident. And the confidence plus the brain behind it was very sexy.
I accepted that Matt was transcendently attractive when he spoke about his passions. Yet, I successfully repressed any inappropriate urges relating to either his internal or external attractiveness.
After dinner, Matt did the dishes while I made new notes on my first draft based on his feedback. Without prompting from me, he pulled the Boston crème pie I'd made for dessert from the fridge.
"I'm assuming this pie is for us to eat?" he asked.
I glanced up from my work, finding him already cutting into it before waiting for my confirmation. "And what if it's not for us? What if I made it for a neighbor?"
"Then you should write her a note of apology, because she's not going to eat it." Matt pulled two forks from a drawer-apparently, he'd already memorized the layout of my kitchen-and brought my plate over to me.
"What are you doing? Is it essential? Can we eat?" He lifted his chin toward my small living room some four paces from where I was working at the kitchen table.
"Uh, yes. Sure. This can wait." I stood and accepted the pie he offered. We both sat on my loveseat because the room had no other place to sit. When I hosted knit night at my apartment, most of the ladies sat on the floor. I used to have two big chairs, but it restricted movement and made the room feel overstuffed with furniture.
He took a bite, closed his eyes, moaned, then took another bite, and moaned again.