Into Your Arms (Squad Stories #1)(29)

"So, you like kids?" I look up from the bowl where I'm mixing the four kinds of cheese together.

"Yeah, I do. They're so much better than adults. Even if they can be little assholes sometimes." I smile, thinking about some of my favorite kids at the day care. Most of them are children of students or professors, so they're all just really cool kids.

"I always wished I had a sibling growing up," she says and then looks a little shocked at herself for telling me that. Tobi did say that she had a rough past. I hope she'll get to the point that she trusts me enough to reveal it.

I know how hypocritical it is to wish that someone will trust you with their past when you never trust anyone with yours. But I can't change who I am.

"Were you an only child?" I ask gently.

She swallows and looks down at her lap, swinging her feet a little before she answers.

"Yup."

"Me too," I say, even though it's not really true. I mean, biologically, I think I'm my parents' only child, but I grew up having all kinds of temporary brothers and sisters.

"Huh," she says, her face forming a frown.

"Hey, you can do something for me. Can you stir the pasta to make sure that it doesn't stick together?" I ask. I am capable of making this whole thing myself with my eyes closed, but I think she needs a distraction.

"Sure," she says and pops down off the counter to go to the stove.

"Are you close with your parents?" she asks, staring into the pot and moving the wooden spoon in slow circles.

"No," I say. That's all she needs to know. That part, at least, is not a lie. Not even a little bit.

"Me neither," she says, so quietly that I almost don't hear her. There's a long silence that is only broken by me coughing and then getting out the baking dish from the cupboard. It's a beautiful vintage Pyrex that I got at a yard sale for a steal.

"So, do you cook a lot?" Freya asks, still stirring the pasta even though I'm sure it doesn't need it.

"Yeah, I kind of had to learn, and I figured out I really enjoyed it. Most of the time I don't have someone to cook for, so this is nice." I smile at her and she gives me a shaky smile back.

"Ugh, why is this awkward? I see you every day, and we spend hours together," she says, her smile relaxing and turning rueful. 

"I was kind of thinking the same thing. It's because we don't have cheer between us right now to keep things going." I step close to her to check the pasta. She doesn't move away.

I pull out a piece and check it for the right consistency. Perfect. Just short of being fully cooked.

Freya looks up at me, and I really want to lean down and kiss her. Put my hand on her back and bend her so our lips can meet. It would be so damn easy.

"This part is done," I say, my voice rough. She nods and scoots away from me. I take the pot to the sink and drain it, putting the pasta back into the pot. "Now it's time for the roux."

Freya silently watches as I melt some butter in a saucepan and then whisk in the milk until it's the perfect creamy consistency. I dump it over the pasta and then add all of the cheese.

"That smells amazing already," she says, peering around my shoulder.

"Yeah, this isn't exactly a healthy meal, but who cares?" She laughs a little, and I wish I could hear that sound at least a hundred times a day. Every day.

"Cheese is life," she says and now I'm the one laughing.

"You got that right. I need that on a sign or something."

I finish the last few steps and shove the casserole dish in the oven and set the timer.

"And now we wait," I say, turning to Freya.

"How about I help you with some of the dishes?" she says.

"You don't have to," I say, but she's already at the sink, washing out the pots and bowls and utensils I used.

"I know, but it's the least I can do since you're cooking for me." She tosses me another smile over her shoulder, and I realize how much I like this side of her. Soft, relaxed. I like her prickly and annoyed, but there's something sweet and intimate about this part of Freya.

She finishes the dishes and stacks them in the dish drainer. The macaroni and cheese has to bake for at least another twenty-five minutes, so now we wait.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Freya asks as we drift toward the living room.

"I don't think I'm being any nicer to you than I would to anyone," I say. Such a fucking lie.

She rolls her eyes.

"Okay, sure." She flops down on the couch and I sit next to her.

"You were easier to deal with when you were trying to be all suave and crap at the bar." I laugh.

"I could turn on the smolder again if you want," I say, winking.

"Ugh, stop it," she says, shoving my shoulder.