Shit. My hard-on is massive, and I reach down to adjust myself in a hurry. At least Miles isn’t in the room. Jesus.
Placing myself behind the fridge door, hiding my lower body, I clear my throat and she looks up.
“Miles said he wanted hot chocolate,” she says. “If there’s one thing I can prepare with my eyes closed it’s this.”
I nod and lean back against the counter, folding my arms over my chest. I glance around. The table is dusty and stained. The sink is filthy. The dirty dishes have been sitting there for days and probably have mold growing on them. The stove is encrusted with old food. A cold draft comes from a cracked window high up the wall.
I know I should’ve cleaned, but I didn’t have time for anything more than hasty breakfasts and dinners and work in the past week.
How different this place is compared to what Tessa is used to. I remember her apartment, impeccably furnished, clean and shiny new. Seeing this kitchen will convince her never to come back. And although that’s what I keep telling myself would be best, I hate the thought.
“Do you ever cook?” I find myself asking and snap my mouth shut as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Yeah, chase her out even faster. Great job, Dylan.
“Sometimes,” she says to my surprise. “I like cooking. It’s like art, but with a useful result.”
“Useful.” I can’t help a chuckle. “You probably cook those new cuisine dishes, like… like caviar with a dash of rosemary, or something.”
Instead of getting pissed with my comment—and why can’t I keep my fucking mouth shut?—she grins at me.
“Caviar with rosemary?”
“Or lobster with champagne sauce or something.”
“Says the guy who doesn’t know how to cook anything but pasta and omelets.”
I lift my hands. “Busted.”
“Just FYI, I avoid seafood. I don’t like it. Plus I prefer to cook food that’s actually edible. In big portions. Like spaghetti. And burgers. And potatoes in the oven.”
She’s walking toward me, and I’m transfixed. The shade of her eyes, the shape of her mouth, the form of her breasts, her arms, her hands… Everything about her turns me on, and at the same time I want to laugh and yell and do crazy shit just at the thought of her being here with me.
Dangerous.
“I’ll make some toast in the pan.” She’s looking at me, and I force my mind back on track. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” I say and settle in a kitchen chair to watch her. I’m pretty sure she’ll regret this. That she’ll hate cooking in this kitchen, and it will show on her face. She must be disgusted. She must be bored.
But she smiles and hums a tune I don’t recognize as she moves around, wiping the counter with a wet cloth and searching for a pan in the cupboards.
Miles comes in and sits next to me. Together we watch her slather butter on the bread and place the ham and cheese neatly on top, heat up the pan and prepare the first piece of toast. I’ve never seen anyone do it this way, but the smell is heavenly. Her small hands move gracefully, efficiently, dishing out the toast on a plate. She turns to place it on the table, and Miles swears softly.
I should scold him for swearing, but I can’t, not when I see the blissful expression on his face as he digs in.
“Good, huh?” I mutter, and he nods several times while chewing.
“See?” Tessa says, turning back to the pan. “No traces of caviar or rosemary can be found in this dish. It’s safe for consumption.”
I laugh out loud. Christ. I lean back in my chair, trying to look anywhere but at her. “Sounds good.”
“Wait your turn, Mr. Hayes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pulls her hair forward, over one shoulder, and my gaze is caught by her exposed neck. Her skin looks smooth and flawless—and if memory serves, it feels like silk. Her black sweater molds to her breasts, and they are fucking magnificent. Her pale mane shimmers like stardust.
Oh, fuck. Poetry? This is really bad. Get a grip, Dylan.
“Here you go,” she says and leans over me to place the dish on the table.
She smells of burnt sugar and melted butter, and her warmth does crazy things to me. I hunch over my plate, glad the table is hiding how hard I’m getting—again—at her proximity.
This is ridiculous. We fucked not three days ago—but that was a mistake, and I told her so, and at least… At least I’d like to be friends.
Being friends is safe. Safer. Friends last more than lovers. That’s what I’ve tried to do, but wanting her has always complicated things, forced me to stay at a distance, not to give myself away.