“Thanks for the offer,” I say, “but I’m not really used to people cooking for me. In fact, I’ve been cooking for myself since I was about five or six.”
His expression plummets. “Please tell me it was all microwaveable stuff.”
I shake my head. “But it’s not that big of a deal. My parents taught me how to use the stove before they started letting me cook with it.” The frown remains on my face, and my defenses go up. “My parents were—are good people,” I state defensively. “They just like to go out a lot, so I needed to learn how to cook for myself or I’d have ended up living off PB&J sandwiches, which are yummy and everything, but not really a good source for dinner.”
His lips tug into an artificial smile. “Well, if you want to cook for yourself, that’s fine. But promise me you’ll at least let Charlotte cook for you one time, preferably dinner.” He smiles for real this time. “She makes some killer pesto pasta and potatoes.”
“All right,” I say. “That sounds doable, I guess.”
He’s all amusement again as he moves away from the fridge and opens the door. “There are some leftovers in here from dinner if you want me to heat them up. It’s spaghetti and meatballs and some garlic bread.” He pulls out a couple of Tupperware containers.
“I can heat them up.” I take them from him.
He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re stubborn, aren’t you?”
I crinkle my nose. “Am I? I mean, I know my friend Nina always says I am, but she’s stubborn, too, so I can never trust her opinion.”
“You are a little bit.” He nudges me back into the kitchen then walks over and opens a cupboard above the sink and takes out a plate. “It’s probably a good thing. Us Everettsons are known for our stubbornness, and if you were too much of a pushover, we’d probably end up walking all over you.” He sets the plate down then takes the containers with the spaghetti from me, popping open the lid. “You should probably push back the most with Foster and Easton. They’re the most likely to stomp all over you if you let them. Like with the attic thing. When they told you that was your room, you should’ve told them to go fuck themselves.”
“I may have if they were one of my friends or maybe even my mom or dad, but …” I dither, chewing on my bottom lip. “I’m not as stubborn and pushy with people I don’t know very well.”
“Are you saying you’re shy?”
“I don’t know … A lot of people say I am, but personally, I just think I’m quiet.” I pause. “I’ve always kind of sucked at socializing.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“What do you mean?”
He opens a drawer and collects a spoon. “Sometimes when people have trouble socializing, it’s because of a bad, perhaps even traumatic, experience.” He shovels a spoonful of spaghetti onto the plate.
“Are you a psych major?” I question, opening the lid on the container with the garlic bread.
He chuckles as he piles more spaghetti onto the plate. “Actually, I’m not in college. But I do get that a lot, probably because I’m a know-it-all.” He winks at me then picks up a piece of garlic bread, puts it onto the plate, and then places the plate in the microwave.
I realize that, whether intentional or not, he just made dinner for me.
“I could’ve heated that up myself.”
“It was just as easy for me to do it.” He closes the microwave then pushes some buttons.
And he says I’m stubborn. Clearly, he’s just as bad.
Sighing, I plop down on a barstool. “So, if you’re not in college, what do you do?”
From the other side of the island, he rests his arms on top of the counter, his eyes glistening mischievously. “What if I told you absolutely nothing? Would you think less of me?”
“No, but I do think that sounds sort of boring.” I cross my arms on top of the counter. “But I’m guessing you’re lying to me.”
His eyes twinkle again. “And why’s that?”
“Because of that little twinkle in your eye.” I point at his face.
He struggles not to grin. “What twinkle?”
I roll my eyes. “Like you don’t already know.”
“Maybe I don’t,” he teases. “Perhaps you’re the first person to ever point that out to me.”