“You can’t do that.”
He frowns at me, but in a way that I know is teasing. “I can follow a recipe, you know.”
“Well—Sure—I mean, I can’tletyou do that.”
He sets the sprayer back in its slot, balls a fist and rests his chin on it, eyeing me clinically. “Yes, I see the problem.”
“What problem?”
“Controlling. Anxious. Structured. Responsible. You’ve got all the symptoms.”
“Of what? Tenant-itis?” I quip, proud of my corny joke.
He laughs and points a finger at me. The finger—his whole hand—is covered with droplets of water, and I’m struck by how ridiculously sexy this looks. When did droplets of water on hands become sexy?
“Good one,” he says. Then he scoops the mushrooms out of the carton, shakes them off—more water droplets—and sets them on the towel next to the onions. “But no. You’re suffering from Birth Order Displacement Syndrome.”
“You’re so full of sh—”
“And the only known cure is a night off to do something irresponsible and self-indulgent.” He turns away from the sink, facing me fully and staring down at me with complete focus. It’s more than a little intense. “Right now.”
My mouth goes dry. I swallow.
Okay, my panties might be a little wet.
He arches a brow, waiting, it appears, for my response.
When one doesn’t come, he tilts his chin to the side and eyes me with mild concern. “What’s wrong?’
I lick my lips, suddenly embarrassed. “I-I-I don’t think I can accept.”
Lark’s eyes narrow. Shit, they are opioids. I can’t stop looking at them. “Why not?”
Will he think I am completely lame?
“Why not, Stella?”
It’s the way he says my name that gives me the tiniest scrap of reassurance that he won’t laugh in my face.
“I’m too tired.”
He blinks. “Sorry?”
I bite my bottom lip. His eyes drop to the gesture, but I ignore that quagmire of feelings and just blurt it out. “I’m too tired to do anything rebellious or self-indulgent. Like go clubbing with Pen or head to Rhythms on the River. Can you let me make dinner, and I’ll take a rain check?”
“No.”
I blink, surprised. “O-Okay, that’s fine. I mean, I get that—”
“No, you don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not letting you make dinner.”
“What?”
“Nobody said you had to go clubbing to be self-indulgent. Go take a bubble bath. Give yourself a mani-pedi. Put your feet up and do some online shopping—”
All of these suggestions sound so marvelous, my bones threaten to turn to broth right here in the kitchen.
“But you’re not making dinner tonight.” He pins me with that vivid gaze, practically daring me to contradict him.
