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At the rink, she's always a little more careful, especially when her dad's around. But here, she's completely relaxed, wandering around barefoot, singing badly, and letting me hang out in her apartment like I belong here.
Which, lately, I kind of do.
She turns toward me, spoon in hand.
A drop of sauce lands on the floor, and Pickles immediately rushes over to investigate.
“Oh, no, you don't.” She grabs a paper towel and wipes it up before he can get to it.
“Sorry, buddy,” I tell him. “Apparently, we're both banned from helping in the kitchen.”
Quinn straightens and gives me a look. “You're welcome to help. You just have to follow instructions.”
“Babe, I'm excellent at following instructions.”
Our banter eases some of the tension I've been carrying around all day, and I settle back against the couch, content to watch her for a little longer.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing."
"You watching me like a creep is not nothing."
"Thanks for the creep word. That's always nice to hear as a guy."
A laugh escapes her before she can stop it. She points the wooden spoon at me.
"You keep distracting the chef, you're eating burnt dinner."
I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. "Fine. I'll behave."
She gives me a look that says she doesn't believe me for a second.
"For now," I add. "I'm not making any promises when it comes to the bedroom."
The words are out before I can stop them.
Quinn's eyes widen ever so slightly before color blooms across her cheeks.
"Good to know," she says, far too casually. She turns back to the stove a beat too quickly, pretending whatever she's stirring suddenly requires her full attention.
I bite back a grin. She's flustered.
And somehow that's even cuter than her pretending she isn't.
A minute later, she carries two plates into the living room and sets them on the TV trays. Then she drops onto the couch beside me, tucking her legs underneath herself.
The TV's already on ESPN, highlights playing on mute with captions scrolling across the bottom.
"Are you sure you want sports?" I ask.
"With you I don't mind."
"Why?" I look over to make sure she isn't just saying that because she thinks it's what I want to hear.
"Because you still remember I am here when the puck drops."
I take another bite of curry, and fuck, it's good. The sauce has just enough heat to make me reach for my water, and the rice is perfect. I didn't grow up eating much curry. Mom was more of a casserole-and-hotdish kind of cook, so this is a nice change.
