Page 61 of Long Story Short

We both laugh as we continue on.

For tonight’s meal, I made stuffed caprese chicken with roasted vegetables and a fresh baguette I picked up from the store. The moment you walk into the kitchen, the rich smells of the tomato and basil take over.

“It smells incredible in here,” Josie notes as if she can read my mind.

I smile, soaking up the compliment. I can’t explain why, but I really want her to enjoy my cooking. I want her to enjoy it so much that she wants to come over at least once a day, just so I can spend as much time with her as possible.

“Good,” I say, lifting her hand to my lips and pressing a kiss to the back of it. My lips move against her soft skin. “Now, take a seat while I get everything plated and ready for you.”

Josie stares at me through her thick eyelashes. For a few beats, we just stare at one another. Finally, she glances at the ground as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Thank you for this,” she murmurs. She slides onto one of the counter stools, her fingers instantly wrapping around the stem of the glass of wine I already poured for her. I thought about doing the proper thing and setting up dinner at the new kitchen table Winnie found for me, replacing the one that came with the house. I love the character the piece brings to the dining area in the corner of the kitchen, but no matter how much I love the table, I wanted to sit as close to Josie as possible this evening. So eating at the counter it is.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I tell her, grabbing two plates from the cabinet. “The food might be horrible.” I’m hoping it isn’t. I’ve spent my evening trying to make the best meal possible, but all my effort could still be for nothing. There’s still a possibility I messed up somehow or that she just doesn’t like it.

After a few moments of Josie not saying anything, I pull my focus from trying to plate her chicken perfectly to look at her.

I find her gaze already on me, her chin resting in her hand. “Even if the food sucks—which, I know it won’t, because it smells too good to be bad—I still want to say thank you. It means a lot that you’re going out of your way to cook for me.” There’s a thoughtful, serious tone to her voice I wasn’t expecting. Something about the way she says the words makes them seem more meaningful.

I resist the urge to ask her more about why someone cooking for her seems like a big deal, but I don’t want to push her. I might not be taking things as slowly as I first intended, but I still want to take my time in getting to know her. I don’t want to pry too much too soon. I’m still learning about her, but I’ve gotten to know her well enough to learn she doesn’t love giving information about herself. It makes me wonder if she’s ever been with anyone who cared enough to ask.

I hold her gaze for a few more minutes, wishing I could explain to her the pull I feel toward her. But I don’t know how. I just know I want to do things for her. I want to be the one she spends time with during her writing breaks. I don’t want to move too fast, but I want to find ways to fit myself into her life, even though she might be leaving once she finishes writing her book.

I swallow as my gaze drops to the counter for a moment before looking back at her. “I’d cook all three meals for you every day if I could.” I try to make my words come out fun and playful, but there’s still a serious undertone to them because they aren’t a joke. It’s true. If she wanted me to, I’d drop whatever plans I had and cook every meal for her if it meant I got to spend that much time with her. That’s the hold she has on me already.

Josie holds my stare. Her hazel eyes are wide as she drinks me in, and I can’t help but wish she’d say out loud whatever’s running through her head. I want to know if she feels the same pull to spend as much time with me as I do with her.

I don’t know how much time passes as we just stare at each other. It’s long enough that I can’t handle the quiet any longer.

“Let’s eat,” I announce, returning to plating our food before I say something else that might freak her out before we’ve even had the chance to eat.

THIRTY-TWO

JOSIE

“So tell me about writing today,” Tyson insists about halfway through our dinner.

I glance over at him, honestly surprised he’s waited this long to bring it up. I’m not sure if I’m relieved by the question…or nervous. Knowing he’d eventually ask, my plan was to take advantage of the moment, using it as an opportunity to ask if he’d like to inspire me even more than he already has.

“It went well,” I say, setting my fork down slowly.

The meal he made was incredible. I grew up with private chefs and a kitchen staff at the house, and still, he prepared a meal that more than impressed me. It was delicious. I think it’s even more impressive because I know he grew up with the same. He still could more than afford a private chef, and yet, he’s been the one to cook the two dinners we’ve had together. I find that incredibly attractive. It feels more personal and romantic that he took the time and effort to do all of this.

“Tell me more,” Tyson presses, mirroring me as he sets his utensil down. His attention shifts fully to me, like nothing else in the room matters.

I shift slightly on the stool, suddenly conscious of how close he is, all too aware of how easy it’d be to lean forward and close the small distance between us.

Do I just tell him about my conversation with Scarlett?

Do I not ask him anything at all?

Maybe we don’t have to have the conversation after all. He’s already inspiring me just by being…him. Do I really need to divulge how lackluster my sex life has been in the past? Do I have to tell him I’m coming to terms with the fact that I think I lost the spark for writing good love stories because of the lack of passion that was in my own life?

My gaze drifts over Tyson again, this time lingering on his features even longer. I can’t help but wonder how we’ve revolved around the same social circle our entire lives, and I still don’t remember ever meeting him. He is over ten years older than me, so that’s a lot of the reason we weren’t around each other much. But we’re also both similar because the Manhattan scene isn’t for us. I guess it makes sense that we never really crossed paths, but there’s something about him that feels familiar in a way I can’t explain. Like I’ve known him longer than I have. Like, somehow, we’ve been circling each other without ever meeting until this summer.

“If I tell you something personal, do you promise not to look at me any differently?” I ask, my voice quiet and unsure.

Tyson tilts his head slightly, two small creases forming between his brows. “I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would make me look at you differently.”