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“Dinner’s almost ready.” The words are full of restraint.
“Great. Thanks for making dinner. I could have helped, you know, I really don’t mind.”
“No.”
“Right.” I sit back and watch him, my heart pounding. Did Savage just open up to me a little? Did we just have a tiny shred of a conversation that wasn’t something to do with me or Cash, or this town?
He doesn’t want you, remember? He said nothing will ever happen.
But he didn’t say that he doesn’t find me attractive.
Savage is the kind of man who relies on actions, and his actions have been flawless over the past ten years. He’s tried to help my family, he’s been there for Cash and even Jesse through every struggle, he’s kind to Alex, and he loves animals. And even though he doesn’t seem to like being around me, he still helps me.
He’s a good person. He’s just not my person. And I’m not going to beg for him. I’m going to leave.
Simple.
The storm continues, the lights flicker overhead, and finally, Savage plates up the food. He walks over and offers me a hand again, but I don’t take it, because I’d prefer not to spontaneously orgasm when he touches me.
I brush past him, and he makes a low noise that rumbles through the living room. I can’t tell what it means.
“I’m starving,” I say. “Thank you for—” My gaze falls to the plate and my jaw drops. “Wow. Is this chicken piccata?”
“Yes.”
“That’s crazy. I love spicy food, but nothing beats that lemony bite and the butter and the capers. Chicken piccata is my favorite meal.”
Savage sits down at the kitchen island with me and cuts into his chicken. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I heard you mention it at a potluck dinner.”
I scratch my head. “When?”
“Five years ago,” he says.
I drop my fork with a clatter.
“Too much lemon?” he asks, tensing.
I shake my head, mute, and stare down at my plate.
Savage keeps on eating like he didn’t just shake me to my core.
“You—You remembered that I mentioned I like chicken piccata five years ago?”
“You said you saw it in an episode of Friends, and you decided to try it out for yourself,” Savage replies, and then eats another piece of chicken.
My stomach does something weird. A swooping sensation that travels up to my chest and clogs my throat with emotion.
Am I going to cry over chicken piccata?
“Food’s getting cold.”
And that’s all he says. That’s the only explanation for this. I’m caught between wondering if I’m reading too much into this gesture, or if Savage might not hate me. The latter seems impossible, but chicken piccata? After five years?
I take a bite of chicken, and it’s perfect, because of course it is. It’s the most perfect chicken I’ve ever tasted.
