Reckless (Mason Family 3)

“Breathe,” I tell her, laughing. “How can you say that many words in a row and not take a breath? It’s impressive, but I’m worried you’re going to pass out.”

Her cheeks flush. “My mom always said that she knew when I was nervous because I would start talking really fast.”

Nervous?

I reach with a hesitant touch and wipe the remaining smear of sauce off her face. She stills, her skin warm beneath mine, as my thumb grazes her cheek. It’s an impulsive move. I don’t realize I’m doing it until it’s done.

My stomach twists once my hand is back to my side. What if I just overstepped my bounds? But, as I search her eyes, I think I’m okay.

“Now,” I say, watching the pupils of her eyes steady, “let’s start over. Did you say you made me food?”

I don’t think she notices that she touches the spot my hand just occupied.

“Tried,” she says, smiling. “I said that I tried to make you food. I didn’t know what else to do.”

I grin. “You didn’t have to do anything. Food is definitely my love language, though—”

“Love language? I’m not speaking to you in love languages.” She shakes a finger at me. “It was a goodwill gesture. That is all.”

“Calm down.” I chuckle. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

As soon as I say the words, I want to recant them. What if I did mean it like that? I mean, I didn’t. I’m not totally sure what a love language even means. But what would be so terrible about wanting to speak to me in one?

I’m lovable, dammit.

I cross my arms over my chest.

She does the same. “What?”

“I’m love language-able.”

She bursts into a fit of laughter.

“I am,” I insist.

“Are your feelings hurt that I’m not talking to you in a love language?”

I think about this. “Yes.”

“You know,” she says, resting her head on the door. “You’re more offended about this than the fact that I broke into your house yesterday.”

“Because this is more personal.”

“More personal than your personal space?”

I nod. “Yes. My personal space is space. My love language is my person. Or about my person. You know what I mean. It cuts deep that you refuse to consider that you’d talk to me in a love language.”

“Well, genius, I don’t love you. Speaking to you like that wouldn’t be necessary, now would it?”

Good point.

She laughs and pulls the door open. “Do you want to come in and get this food or not?”

“I would love to.” I lift my chin and walk inside. “Because I’m not afraid of love things.”

She snorts but otherwise ignores my poke at her.

We move through the foyer and into Libby’s kitchen.

“What the hell happened in here?” I ask, taking in the destruction in front of me.

The kitchen looks nothing short of a culinary war zone. The counter on either side of the stove is covered in debris. There are pots and knives in the sink and spaghetti sauce sticking an empty box of garlic bread to the kitchen island. A bundle of carrots leans untouched against a bag of onions, and all I can think of is that I hope she has a Janey.

“I told you,” she says. “I cooked.”

“No, I think you said you tried to cook, and now I understand why you chose those specific words.”

She scoffs as she grabs a lid off the counter. “Fine. Then I’ll keep my house … warming? Breaking? Gift to myself.”

I join her at the stove. “Let me get this straight. You made me dinner as a house-breaking gift?”

She snaps the lid on a giant bowl of pasta. “I did.”

I look around once again. It must’ve taken her a while to make such a mess. And, although it’s a giant disaster, a lot of thought had to have gone into this.

For me.

And that’s pretty damn sweet.

“That was awfully nice of you,” I say, leaning against the counter.

She looks down. A strand of hair falls into her face. She doesn’t look up, but I can tell she appreciates the comment.

“It might not be fit to eat,” she says. “I’m not the greatest cook.”

“It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Right.”

She takes a plastic bag out of a drawer. I move to get a better view of what she’s doing when my back suddenly feels damp. I pull away from the counter and notice that I’ve leaned against something wet.

“Here.” She tosses me a kitchen towel.

I grab it out of the air and press it against the spot on the small of my back. “You didn’t have to do all of this, you know.”

“I know.” She sits the bag down by the garlic bread. “But when someone does something nice for you, you should do something nice back.”

“Or you could just accept it and be happy.”

She looks at me like I’m joking. “Yeah.”

I furrow my brow and wonder what that look was about. There’s something to unpack there. But, if I poke around too much, I run the risk of making her wish she hadn’t made me dinner. I don’t want to do that.