“What?” I sputter and cup my crotch protectively. “This is small? Who the hell said that?”
“So you’re big. Just how big are you?”
I gape at her, even as my dick starts getting interested in the proceedings, hardening against my palm. “Big.” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with her, with Amber. My gaze strays to the swell of her tits under her tight, green top and my dick jumps under my hand, making me hiss. “Big enough.”
“We’ll see about that.” She winks at me heading to the kitchen, and I choke on my inhale.
What the fuck just happened?
What happened is I walked right into that one. Shit, that’s a first. This girl’s messing with my head, throwing my teasing back at me.
That’s a first, and damn if I don’t like it.
“Is it good?” She pushes a glass of juice toward me as I inhale the last of the spicy tuna rolls she put in front of me less than a minute earlier.
“Terrible,” I say with my mouth full and lick hot sauce off my fingers. “A health hazard. I think you’re trying to poison me.”
She giggles, but then her eyes focus on my finger-licking and widen a little before she turns away.
“I’ll let Kayla know how much you hated her rolls,” she says.
“Oh, she made them?” I could have eaten another ten of the tiny things, but I gulp down the juice instead. “They’re really good. Maybe she could show me how to make them one day.”
“You want to learn how to cook?”
I put my glass down, shrug. “Yeah. Is it weird? I’ve watched Mel at the taco stand, but I can’t eat tacos every night.”
She blinks at me, looking confused. “Can’t you cook something else?”
“If I knew, I would.” Now my belly’s full, my eyelids are drooping. I stifle a yawn. “It’s strange, having a kitchen, you know, where you can store food and cook and stuff. On the street you just grab what’s cheap and ready.”
Her face falls, and yeah, I’ve shoved her into the shitty reality of my past again. I keep forgetting most people have no clue what that’s like.
Not sure whether I should say I’m sorry for speaking out or cut my losses and shut up.
But then she says, “I’m sorry.”
What is she sorry for?
“Well, I’m not. Having a kitchen is damn cool, let me tell you that.”
She huffs a little laugh and pushes at my shoulder with her hand. “Shut up. You know what I mean.” When I stare at her, lost, she swallows hard and sits back down across from me. “I’m sorry you had to live like that before. It makes me sad.”
I hate pity. All my life I’ve fought it. I’m a proud person, although I’ve had to crack down on my pride quite a few times to avoid checking out of this world. Still… I’m glad she’s not pitying me, because otherwise I’d be out the door already.
And thinking she’s sad on my behalf sends those bands of warmth tightening around my chest until I can hardly breathe.
“Today…” I turn the cool glass in my hands, making it squeak on the table. “Today’s Helen’s birthday.”
I have no clue why I’m telling her this, sitting at the little table in her bright kitchen, spilling my guts out. I haven’t talked about Helen since the day she vanished. What’s wrong with me?
And worse still, why can’t I seem able to fucking stop?
“I always toast her with a shot of brandy on her birthday. She liked the stuff. I save a bottle in my room for special occasions.” I force my hands to still on top of the table. “I asked Mel to let me leave early. Not because of Helen, just…”
My fists are so tight my nails bite into the flesh of my palm, and yet I can’t feel any pain. Numb.
“What happened?” Her hands slide over mine like cool water, covering my fists, until I relax them and let my hands lie flat on the table. “When you got home?”