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Nolan
“I’m just glad you’re okay, and there wasn’t too much damage,” Allie said, letting out a sigh.
I nodded briefly as I continued to chop the cucumbers on the cutting board for the salad I was making. While I probably should have been more pissed at Dawson than I was, a part of me was numb to people blowing up at me on the phone as I dealt with angry clients on the daily. And to be fair, until recently, I’d endured Dawson’s unappreciative customer service gripes for the last two years. Dawson yelling at me didn’t phase me anymore.
But what really did me in was hearing his voice shake when he claimed it was his life, and he was in control. He sounded like me, or the me I was before all of this—whatever this was—happened.
I hated disruption, disorder. I prided myself on always doing what was right, keeping to the status quo, and keeping my nose down. I liked routine better than anyone, and I understood feeling helpless when things were out of my control.
It was just barely twenty-four hours since I’d felt that way, since I’d woke up in the middle of a literal fire and Dawson had come to my rescue with s’mores and sweet whispers of wanting to take care of me. So, instead of rising to his anger, instead of feeding into his need to control the situation, I did the only thing I could think of to do.
I tried to take care of him. Which for me, meant making my calls on the Bradish claim in between filing my own, and hitting the market to grab some stuff to make dinner.
I wasn’t stupid, I knew given the situation, I’d probably be gone afterward, taking up residence at the Paradise until my apartment was ready for me to inhabit it again. So, at the very least, it was a thank you. I’d probably overstayed my welcome, anyway.
I sprinkled the cucumber wedges in the salad bowls as Allie continued.
“Still though, you have to admit it is sort of ironic that Mr. March came to your rescue like some knight in shining armor. I mean, you can’t make that kind of stuff up. It’s like, Hallmark material.”
“It would be Hallmark material if it ended happily ever after, but we both know that’s not happening.”
“And why not?” Allie pressed. “I’d kill to have a hot guy make me dinner when I’ve had a shit day.”
I tossed the cutting board and knife in the sink as I turned to her.
Her eyes sparkled even through Facetime, her lips smirking with smugness.
“Because that would mean I actually did something right for once,” I grumbled as the timer went off for the pasta.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Nolan. You’re a damn gem, and one argument does not mean you’re toast. If Dawson has any brains, he’ll be groveling after tasting your damn cooking. What are you making anyway?” she said as she tried to peer around me.
I emptied the pasta into the strainer. “Chicken Alfredo and salad. Not exactly fancy, but...”
The sound of the door unlocking alerted me, and Allie’s eyes widened.
“Fuck, I gotta go, Allie. I’ll call you later,” I said, and I hung up quickly. It wasn’t like I was embarrassed or anything, but some things I liked to keep to myself. And Allie was one of those things. We’d been friends since high school, and she was the closest thing I had to a sister. I told her everything, and I mean everything. Something my exes didn’t particularly care for.
I’d just added the cooked pasta to the sauce pot as Dawson walked through the door.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Dawson said, his entire body freezing upon the sight of me.
“Expecting someone else?” I growled, a little harsher than I’d meant to. I tossed the pasta in the pot, making sure it was coated well with sauce.
Dawson let out a sigh. “No, I just...”
“Sit down,” I said briskly as I set the bowls out. A part of me worried Dawson might find my exploration of his kitchen cabinets invasive, but I hoped the scent of overpowering parmesan and bacon distracted him from the fact I’d gone through his stuff.
I had a good reason though...
I braced myself for an argument. After all, last I’d spoken to him he’d been pretty upset, and Dawson wasn’t the type to take commands without a little rebuttal. I’d seen him around the firehouse. True to what he’d claimed earlier, he was usually the one in charge, telling others what to do.
So, when he did as I asked without question, sitting his ass on his barstool, eyes wide and focused on me like a kid in a candy store, I couldn’t help but be surprised.
And maybe a little smug. So sue me.
“Did you actually make all this from scratch?” Dawson asked carefully.
I set the bowls of salad and pasta in front of him before sliding him a fork.
