Whitney gapes, “Are you watching Love Islandwithoutme?”
I quickly click off the TV. I’m not confirming nor denying that question. I point the remote at the cat, and repeat again, “Whitney,whatis that?”
“What? You’ve never seen a cat before?” At the same second, she asks, Benji jumps on his hind legs, his butt picking up speed once he realizes what his mom has brought home. He’s never been around cats, so I’m thankful he’s not trying to snatch it out of her arm right now. “See!” Whitney shouts, “Benny likes her.”
She pats Benji on the head, side-stepping him and coming to stand between my knees. She wastes no time in plopping the new animal on my lap. I scowl at her beneath lowered brows. “Whyis there a cat in the house?” The grey-overly-fluffy cat starts purring and rubbing herself against my chest.
“Her name is Ivy,” Whitney snaps, squaring her shoulders, “and she needs a place to stay.”
“And she has to live… here?” I ask, waving one hand around while the other, unfortunately, goes to pet Ivy.
“You don’t like cats?” She looks me over, face scrunching and head tilting. I don’t respond right away. Truth is—I’m indifferent to them. I’ve always been more of a dog person, but I don’t think I’d truly love any dog other than Benji. He was a stray I found out of town while on a business trip and jumped in my truck like he owned the place. He came home with me and never left. But I also don’t want to admit that I like anything Whitney likes. And from the pouty lip and doe-eyes she’s using on me right now, it confirms this cat will not be going anywhere. I’ll have to buy a stupid cat tower and collar by the end of day. She’ll make a good barn cat. That’s what I’m telling myself as I sigh, relinquishing, “Where did you find her? Did you take her to the vet?”
Whitney smirks, sinking down beside me on the couch and filling me in on her adventures for today.
Brinley came homefor a bit before leaving to stay the night at my mom’s. We took her sledding, went shopping for cat-related supplies, and gave her a bath before she left. I wanted to keep her home, but also wanted to give Whitney a child-free date night for the first time.
Whitney was shocked when I said we’d be having our date-night inside, but I saw the relief in her eyes when she realized she could stay in her pajamas and not have to dress up or leave the house. I knew she’d like something more intimate, and she really,really, needs some fucking cooking lessons. That’s why we stand in the kitchen, a plethora of ingredients laid out on the island before us. Benji and his new best friend are cuddled on his dog bed in front of the fireplace. The two took to each other quickly, and a small part of me is glad he has company.
“We’re cooking?” Winnie asks as she glances from me to the food on the counter. She’s in a fuzzy pair of pajama pants and a white tank top. I wonder if she realizes how see-through it is. But I’m not one to complain—or say something in case she tries to change. “Yes,” I nod, “and I rented Pride and Prejudice for the night. Desert will be popcorn and all sorts of chocolate that’ll have you saying your ‘tummy’ hurts later.”
“Oh, I could kiss you,” she sighs dramatically, laying her head on my bicep.
“Please do,” I murmur, a teasing half-grin on my face as I tilt my chin down to look at her. She obliges, standing on her tippy-toes and planting a light kiss to my jaw. Brat. When she pulls away, I smack her ass and bark at her to grab a pan from the cabinet.
We’re making something simple. Baked spaghetti pie— my dad’s favorite recipe. He was an amazing cook, maybe even better than my mom. I don’t make it often, sometimes the nostalgia is too much for a lonely night, but I don’t mind sharing this with her. “Okay.” Whitney claps her hands as her eyes skim over the old recipe card. “Step one–boil the pasta. I think I can handle that.”
“You’re saying it like that’snotthe easiest part. Do you need me to supervise?” I tease.
“I can boil pasta, Conway. Move.” She shoves me out of the way with her hip, taking her spot at the stove. She hovers over it intently, like she’s determined to prove a point. I move to pull some of the snacks for later out, planning to set them up on the coffee table in the living room. A couple minutes pass when I hear a hiss, like water turning to steam, and I glance over to see Whitney’s wide eyes and shaky hand. She dips a ladle into the pot, spooning hot, boiling water out of and into a bowl. “Too much water?” she asks, a grimace rippling her features.
“Looks like it,” I reply, running a hand over my face to stifle my growing laugh. She rolls her eyes, placing her pasta-water on the counter. She cocks a hip, “Are you always this judgey in the kitchen?”
I smirk, making a show of running my eyes up and down the length of her body. “Only when the student looks this good in my kitchen.”
“Smooth, asshole.” she mutters, turning back to the stove. I come to her side once she has the noodles in, and they’re about halfway done. I hand her a large bowl of browned sausage, and nod towards the eggs and a bag of cheese beside us. “Now, you’re going to whisk some eggs, and add some mozzarella.”
I cringe when she cracks the egg a little too hard, a little piece of eggshell falling into the bowl. But she just digs it out with a pinky, wiping it on the hand towel thrown over my shoulder. Eventually, we layer everything into a pie pan. First, pasta mixed with the egg and cheese. Then the meat, and then sauce. Once she sprinkles a little more cheese on top, I take the pan from her and pop it in the oven. “30 minutes in the oven. We should be able to keep you from burning the house down till then.”
“Ha. Ha.” Her sarcastic tone lights a fire in my stomach. Teasing and poking at Whitney will always be my favorite thing to do. “Very funny.”
We spend the next half-hour talking about everything under the sun. After the oven beeps and we patiently wait for it to cool down, I spoon it onto two plates for us. The smell of baked cheese and tomato warms my heart. I watch her as she takes the first bite, head tipping back and a satisfied moan working its way up her throat. “God, that’s good.”
I smile, taking a bite from my own plate. “It was my dad’s recipe.” The fork pauses halfway to her mouth, “You taught me one of your dad’s recipes?”
I shrug, poking at the food on my plate. “It’s one of my favorites, too.”
We fall into a comfortable silence. Her warm, manicured hand falling on my arm. The gentle touch sends shivers up my spine. “I wish I could have gotten to know him a little better.”
“He wouldn’t have known what to do with you,” I laugh. “But he would have loved you and Brinley.”
I watch her as I speak. The way her gaze softens, and my eyes involuntarily drop to her mouth. A little spot of red sauce sits on the corner of her mouth. Her breath catches, and her hand shoots up like she realizes it’s there and wants to wipe it away. But I’m already leaning in and pushing my hand against her wrist to stop her. I can’t help the tug that has me leaning forward and kissing the spot. When I pull back, her nose brushes against mine. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” she whispers.
The need to tell her how badly I want to shareeverythingwith her is all too consuming. I almost told her I loved her when I came back from my trip. When she asked if I was hers, as if she needed confirmation. But I don’t want to scare her. I can’t read if it’s too soon, too fast. I want her to be ready, to be sure, before I drop a bomb like that on her. The last thing I want Whitney to do is tuck-tail and run because of those three little words. So, instead I just say, “Thank you for letting me.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
WHITNEY
