Being in his place hours ago wasn’t a big deal; she knew they were leaving for their day.
But now…now she was here for dinner and conversation.
All the elements of a date. A romantic one, as opposed to two friends exploring the town.
She turned to look at him, his scent still there, still strong, and still making her pulse kick up.
The light hit his face in a way that made her remember every detail she’d been trying to forget. The rough slide of his jaw against her neck, the sound of his voice when he’d said her name.
She exhaled slowly, half a laugh, half a plea. She had to get some control. “Ethan…”
He tilted his head, his blue eyes softer now. “Relax, Nora. We’re just cooking dinner.”
She nodded, though neither of them moved for a long moment. Him saying that should have relaxed her, but the air was so thick it felt like a touch.
When she finally stepped away, it wasn’t because she wanted to.
It was because if she didn’t, she’d forget every reason this was supposed to be a bad idea.
“So what are we making?” she asked. It was the only way to gain her control back.
“I thought pasta and veggies. You know, to counter the Hot Cheetos that you know are in the pantry. Put some sliced chicken over it and we are good to go.”
“Sounds delicious,” she said.
“Why don’t we start,” he said. “You’re nervous and shouldn’t be. You can leave at any point if you want. I’m not chaining you here.”
Maybe she’d like that though.
Oh hell. Where didthatthought come from?
She took another drink of water and coughed. He pounded her on the back. “I’m good,” she croaked out. She didn’t need him touching her anymore.
He grabbed a box of tissues and put it in front of her. She pulled one out to blot her eyes that were running during her embarrassing coughing fit.
While she was cleaning up her face, he pulled out a package of chicken that he’d bought this morning, then several vegetables.
Red peppers, broccoli, carrots, mushrooms.
He moved around while she stood there, telling her with his quick, efficient movements that he was used to cooking.
They both had a cutting board in front of them with knives. He went for the chicken and she snagged the pepper.
“Cut them any way you want,” he said. “I’m not fussy about those things.”
“Me neither.”
In silence, they chopped and prepared, then brought the pans out.
The chicken breasts were seasoned first and thrown into the oven to bake, the veggies in piles to be cooked in stages.
“My mother told me not to mix them together until it’s time to finish,” he said.
“Did your mother teach you to cook or were you one of those people who took those fancy cooking classes with a partner?”
“My mother. Never did a cooking class with someone. Have you? Is that something you want to do?”
“I always thought it’d be fun, but no. No one has ever wanted to.”
