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I enter the living room and sit down, tucking my feet underneath myself. “Yeah, you should try it sometime. It’s freeing.”
Savage keeps chopping and cooking. He doesn’t ask what I want or if I’m allergic to anything, but I don’t care, because I’ve got a front row ticket to his thick, muscular forearms working as he makes things. For me. To eat.
Never going to happen.
Those words are so painful, but I have to remind myself of them. Lightning cracks outside, illuminating the curtains that hang over Savage’s front windows, and I jump a little at the sound that follows. The rush of rain grows stronger. “This is serious, isn’t it?” I ask.
“What?”
“The storm.” I bring my phone up and tap on the screen. No cell signal.
“I’ve heard that about weather warnings,” Savage says. “That they’re serious.”
I snort then cover my mouth and nose, but Savage doesn’t look up. He’s smiling though, the tiniest smile, and it makes my insides twist. I hate that I can’t have him, and that I want him in the first place. I hate everything about this situation. And most of all, I hate how stupidly handsome he is, how caring, even if he’s gruff. How I don’t know him that well, and I never will.
And that is exactly why I’m going to put on my track shoes and run the minute this rain stops. Run away from this town.
“Almost done,” Savage says.
I bring my gaze up to his face. “Do you like to cook?”
“Don’t usually do much cooking unless I have a guest,” he says.
“I thought you don’t like to entertain.”
“I don’t.” And he scowls at me.
What the hell? “Are you angry at me?”
“No.”
“I mean, you could have fooled me,” I say. “You keep frowning at me.”
He shrugs and continues cooking.
“Great talk.”
I sigh, and lay back on the sofa. It puts him out of my line of sight, which is a good thing, since I’m tired of wanting what I can’t have and loathing myself for it. Delicious smells drift from the kitchen, lemon zest and melted butter. My mouth waters.
“The last time I cooked for someone was sixteen years ago.” Savage’s gruff voice is audible just above the sizzle of whatever he’s frying in the pan.
I sit up and open my mouth to reply, but no words come out.
His gaze remains on the stovetop.
“Sixteen years?”
“Yes.”
“For a woman?”
Savage’s jaw tightens, his face hardens so fast, it’s scary. “Yes.”
I swallow, scanning him. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For whatever happened,” I say. “If something did happen. Or?—”
