“I don’t even know what that means.”
“The short version: concussions.”
“Ouch,” I say, flinching.
“Yeah.”
I pick up the tray and head for the door onto the patio. “Be right back.”
The charcoal is nice and hot. I empty the chimney full of coals and add a few new briquettes. Once the grill is ready, I place the steaks on the grill.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Dylan’s watching me. I know it. And instead of it making me nervous … I like the feeling of it. I like the idea of it. Of her beside me in the kitchen as we prepare dinner while listening to music and talking about our lives. When have I ever had this?
Maybe I’d cook more if this was the case.
I grin and shut the lid.
She has a bowl out and is making the salad when I step back into the house.
“I thought I’d go ahead and get this ready,” she says. “How many tomatoes do you want me to put in it?”
“However many you’d like,” I say from the sink. I rinse my hands and then grab a towel. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
“Well, do you like a lot of them or not so many?”
“I don’t really even like tomatoes,” I admit.
She sets the knife down. “Then why did you buy them?”
“I don’t know. Don’t they go in a salad?”
She cocks her head to the side. Lifting a cucumber, she holds it in the air. “What about these?”
I shrug.
“Do you like them?” she asks.
I shrug again.
“I don’t understand,” she says.
“The lady at the store said that’s what goes in a salad. I don’t know that stuff. So if she’s wrong, blame it on her. Not on me.” I laugh. “I also got sunflower seeds, but I do like those. Never had them in a salad, but I like them for sure.”
She laughs, her voice blending with mine. “If you basically don’t like anything that goes in a salad, then why are we having it?”
“Don’t you like salad?”
Her shoulders fall as a smile graces her lips. “Yes. I do. And I like tomatoes and cucumbers.”
“Good,” I say, trying not to show her how proud I am of myself.
She turns away, her hair covering the side of her face. A song plays from her phone, the lyrics about candles dripping on bodies striking a chord deep inside mine.
She flips her head so that her hair falls on her far shoulder, exposing the side of her face to me. She chops the vegetables, her hips moving with the beat of the song. The bass is deep, the beat slow and sensual. Her lashes fall closed as she loses herself in the words.
I walk toward her, unable to look away.
Holding her breath as I get closer, she stills.
I stand behind her and peer over her shoulder.
Kissing her would be so easy. Touching her would take all of a half of a second. But if I do either, I’m not going to stop.
And I have dinner to make.
“Looking good,” I say.
She blows out a breath.
I’m lying. She looks incredible. She smells fucking awesome. She has shown me more empathy in a few days than many of my friends had throughout my life. She is sexy as hell. But she will get to eat her dinner because I’m starting to realize that she deserves someone looking after her.
I laugh at her frustration—because, fuck, I get it—winking as I head to the refrigerator.
Twenty
Dylan
The unexpected charm of this man is on full display as he maneuvers around the kitchen with ease. “For someone who doesn’t ever cook, you sure know your way around the kitchen.”
“It’s never been fun to cook for one.”
“But it is for two?”
He lifts from checking on the potatoes, gazing through the oven window as if he’s admiring newborns in the nursery. When his blue eyes land back on me, my hands press a little harder onto the counter to steady myself.
That level of sexy should be outlawed.
The corners of his lips shoot up. “It is for you.”
The kitchen suddenly feels like a hot August day with him standing so close. I look away, directing my attention back to the salad. The blade of the knife slices through the tomato, cracking down on the cutting board.
“Careful,” he says, coming around me. “I just sharpened the knives.”
He sets a cutting board next to mine and starts chopping the onions. I think it’s the first true glimpse of how comfortable we’ve become in our living situation. I don’t know if I should be worried or appreciate it by living in the moment. The latter is feeling like a favorite T-shirt right about now, so I go with what feels good.
Peck Ward feels good. Every brush of his arm against mine, the way his laughter tickles my ear, and the heat that exudes between us is heightened. I finish dicing the tomato and take a step back, leaning against the opposite counter to get a better look at him. From that ass to those biceps and broad shoulders, he knows how to get attention without even trying.