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“You don’t.” Her attention returns to the groceries as she clears her throat. “You don’t make me uncomfortable.”
I’m not sure I believe her. She doesn’t seem to be lying, but I’m not good at catching lies when they’re told by a beautiful woman. It’s not one of my strong suits.
I’m about to make an excuse to leave, when she looks up at me again, and says, “Unless I make you uncomfortable. Don’t feel like you have to stay and keep me company.”
Well, fuck.
What am I supposed to do with that?
That’s a hell of a question. No, she doesn’t make me uncomfortable. At least not in the way she means it. But it’s not like she makes me comfortable either. I’m not exactly relaxed. I’m far too alert for that. It’s discomfort. But a discomfort, like I’ve never quite felt before. I feel alive and alert. The same way I do when I’m in the zone coding. Like I’m tapped into something bigger than myself.
“It’s fine.” She seems to take my words at face value, nodding, as she washes produce. After a moment, she snaps open an earbud case and starts to put them in.
“You can connect to the Bluetooth speakers.”
“The music won’t bother you?”
“It won’t.” I know she likes to listen to music while she cooks. And that she taps in to the speakers when I’m not here. She keeps the volume low, but sometimes when I’m up in my office and she’s down here, bits of the music drift up from the stairs.
If I’m going to do this, I’m going to get the most out of it.
She connects her phone to the speakers and pulls up a playlist. It’s a lot of female artists, most of them I’ve never heard of before.
So I stay, pretending to work on my laptop while she cooks, trying not to get turned on as she rubs oil on a whole chicken. There shouldn’t be anything sexy about raw chicken. Of course, it’s not the raw chicken that’s doing it for me. It’s her hands, strong and competent. It’s the confidence with which she uses the tools at her disposal. Like the entire kitchen is an extension of her body.
Once the chicken is in the oven, she does a quick clean up before washing and drying her hands. She gets out more food—a bag of potatoes this time. She pulls out two potatoes and washes them before nudging the rest of the bag further down the counter. Then she pauses to pull out a protein bar and eats a bite before returning to peeling the potatoes.
She looks up to find me watching her. Her chewing slows as she brings her fingers up to brush away some crumbs.
“Sorry.” She flashes me a sheepish grin. “I usually eat my dinner while I cook. If that bothers you, I can wait to eat after.”
My gaze drops to the protein bar. “That’s your dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t like roasted chicken?”
“I wouldn’t make you something I didn’t like.” She shrugs. “Of course, I like most food if it’s well prepared. And you haven’t told me what you like, so I’ve been flying blind here.” She tips her head to the side as she takes another bite for her bar. “Do you not like chicken? Because I can whip up something else.”
“I love chicken,” I snap. “I just don’t see why you’re eating a protein bar for dinner when there’s a whole chicken.”
Her gaze shifts to the oven against the far wall and then back to me. “Oh.” Then she chuckles, pointing at the oven. “That’s your dinner. Not mine.”
“You haven’t been eating the food you prepare for me?”
“Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“That’s your food.” She must see the source of my confusion, because she goes on. “I shop for you from a weekly budget Martin set up.”
“Obviously,” I snap, still not seeing her point.
“If I shopped for myself out of that budget, that would be stealing.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” I argue automatically.
“This weekly budget Martin gives you. Do you spend all the money every week?”
