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I lift my hands. “Busted.”
“Just FYI, I avoid seafood. I don’t like it. Plus I prefer to cook food that’s actually edible. In big portions. Like spaghetti. And burgers. And potatoes in the oven.”
She’s walking toward me, and I’m transfixed. The shade of her eyes, the shape of her mouth, the form of her breasts, her arms, her hands… Everything about her turns me on, and at the same time I want to laugh and yell and do crazy shit just at the thought of her being here with me.
Dangerous.
“I’ll make some toast in the pan.” She’s looking at me, and I force my mind back on track. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” I say and settle in a kitchen chair to watch her. I’m pretty sure she’ll regret this. That she’ll hate cooking in this kitchen, and it will show on her face. She must be disgusted. She must be bored.
But she smiles and hums a tune I don’t recognize as she moves around, wiping the counter with a wet cloth and searching for a pan in the cupboards.
Miles comes in and sits next to me. Together we watch her slather butter on the bread and place the ham and cheese neatly on top, heat up the pan and prepare the first piece of toast. I’ve never seen anyone do it this way, but the smell is heavenly. Her small hands move gracefully, efficiently, dishing out the toast on a plate. She turns to place it on the table, and Miles swears softly.
I should scold him for swearing, but I can’t, not when I see the blissful expression on his face as he digs in.
“Good, huh?” I mutter, and he nods several times while chewing.
“See?” Tessa says, turning back to the pan. “No traces of caviar or rosemary can be found in this dish. It’s safe for consumption.”
I laugh out loud. Christ. I lean back in my chair, trying to look anywhere but at her. “Sounds good.”
“Wait your turn, Mr. Hayes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pulls her hair forward, over one shoulder, and my gaze is caught by her exposed neck. Her skin looks smooth and flawless—and if memory serves, it feels like silk. Her black sweater molds to her breasts, and they are fucking magnificent. Her pale mane shimmers like stardust.
Oh, fuck. Poetry? This is really bad. Get a grip, Dylan.
“Here you go,” she says and leans over me to place the dish on the table.
She smells of burnt sugar and melted butter, and her warmth does crazy things to me. I hunch over my plate, glad the table is hiding how hard I’m getting—again—at her proximity.
This is ridiculous. We fucked not three days ago—but that was a mistake, and I told her so, and at least… At least I’d like to be friends.
Being friends is safe. Safer. Friends last more than lovers. That’s what I’ve tried to do, but wanting her has always complicated things, forced me to stay at a distance, not to give myself away.
Dammit. I can’t stop wanting her. Why can’t I stop?
“Something wrong?” she asks, and I shake my head and concentrate on eating. The toast is good. It’s excellent, in fact, and I tell her so.
“It’s just toast,” she says. It strikes me how she never believes just how amazing she is.
Well, if the speed at which both Miles and I are inhaling her toast doesn’t convince her we like it, I don’t know what will.
“I thought you were leaving town,” I say. My stomach is full and not trying to consume itself anymore, allowing for clearer thought. “But you’re still here.”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
Putting down my fork, I study her face. Her normally bright eyes are dimmed. “Why?”
It seems too big a question to be contained in one word—why are you here, why are you helping me, why were you leaving and why did you decide to stay?
“I’m not ready to leave,” she says, and I read all sorts of things into that, things I shouldn’t. Like maybe she’s not ready to give up on me yet, and talk about wishful thinking and major confusion.
“Because I asked you to stay?”
