“Fair enough.” I remove my hand and nod at the same bar stool she ate her dinner in the last time I was here. “Pull that over here. I’m going to teach you to cook.”
“At least tell me it’s going to be something easy.”
“Easy enough that I trust you won’t burn the entire apartment building down the first time you make it yourself.”
She glares lightly while reaching for the back of the chair. “I’m notthathelpless in the kitchen.”
“Prove it.”
“You’re going to regret provoking me,” she sings.
The legs of the bar stool scrape the glossy tile as she hauls it over and plops her ass into it a beat later. She presses her knees together to cover herself, and I shove away my desire to drop to mine and spread them wide.
Clearing my throat, I lift the bag of sourdough bread and dangle it between us.
“Let’s get started.”
31
BRIELLE
I bitemy lip and take the clean, sudsy plate from Roman’s extended hand. The dishwasher sits unused a few feet away, empty and rejected.
“Do you have something against dishwashers?” I ask, rinsing off the plate.
He steals a swift glance at the dishtowel in my hands before speaking. “When’s the last time you cleaned the filter?”
“The filter?”
“Yes, Brielle. The trap at the bottom of the dishwasher that collects bits of food over time.”
I slowly turn my head, eyeing the dishwasher like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it. “Isn’t it supposed to do that itself? Shouldn’t it just get washed with the dishes?”
“It should, but doesn’t. I prefer handwashing.”
“I’m quickly learning the appeal.”
His body heat keeps me warm at his side as I finish drying the plate and set it on the second towel he’s laid out on the counter. It feels so damn mundane doing this. Like we’re not just two people having sex and instead are . . . a couple doing regular couple things. Even when I remind myself that he’s just being a gentleman and cleaning up after himself.
This is just yet another reminder that Roman is so, so freaking different than the typical dudes I bring home.
“Plus,” he starts with a rough clearing of his throat. I look at him, watching his jaw work. “It takes more time.”
I nod, fighting a smile. “More time. Right. And that’s a good thing?”
“It can be. When you want the job to take longer.”
My belly fills with fiercely flapping wings. “It’s already late.”
“It is.”
“Where’s Evie tonight?”
His huge hands flex when they dive back into the water and begin scrubbing the pink pan we used for our grilled chicken. “She was at her studio, but I expect she’s at home sleeping now. She’s been putting in long hours there these last few weeks. We had dinner together earlier.”
Sothat’swhere he was.
“She’s really passionate about her work. I like that about her.”
