I shrug, the movement catching her attention. The idea isn’t a bad one. I’ll support her and lighten her load in any way she’ll let me.
With her free hand, she holds up one finger, being sure to keep it off camera. Then she backs into her hotel room and motions me in.
I approach slowly, giving her space.
She doesn’t stop until she’s in the kitchen where her phone stand is set up. The workspace here is much neater than the one I stumbled upon in her hotel room in Japan. She snags her stand and a few other piles off the counter, then spins, continuing to keep the camera off me.
She retreats into the living room and arches a brow, leaving me to do my thing.
I pull out various ingredients and get to work. The kitchen is fully functional and well stocked, just as I hoped. Vinnie, one of Mick’s guys, shopped for me this afternoon. I may or may not have told him that I wanted to prepare my own food. Which isn’t entirely wrong. I’ll also be eating this meal.
My goal is to replicate the orzo pasta I made for Evangeline at my home before the start of the season. Vinnie sourced several local ingredients I’m eager to incorporate into the dish, so I’m hopeful this will be an even better version.
I forgo turning on music or cueing up a podcast, opting to listen to Evangeline as I work.
My only grievance is that with this setup, I can’t watch her while I cook. It’s a creepy sentiment, I realize, as I grate a fresh block of parmesan.
My body buzzes with pleasure. She let me into the room so easily and very quickly gave me space to do something for her. It may be small in comparison to the damage I’m trying to counterbalance, but it’s something.
When she reminds her viewers about her current shop specials and membership sale, nerves spark to life inside me.
She’s almost done.
With any luck, our night is just getting started.
She gives her final spiel, then falls silent for several minutes.
I hold my breath, waiting. Hoping. Wanting.
When she rounds the corner and comes into view, I finally allow myself to exhale.
Her eyes are dull with exhaustion, shoulders slumped like last time.
She pauses on the threshold, assessing my setup. “You’re here.”
“I am,” I hedge, offering what I hope is a reassuring smile before refocusing on the tomatoes I’m slicing for a salad.
I don’t know if she even likes salad. But Vinnie picked up basic ingredients, along with eight varieties of bottled dressing since I wasn’t sure what she might prefer. In retrospect, eight might be overkill. Especially considering they were hard to source, since bottled dressing isn’t as common here as it is in the States. If I needed a pulse check on my feelings for this woman, surely purchasing almost one hundred dollars in salad dressing is insight enough.
“Is this okay?” I ask. I wish she would come closer and give me an indication of what she’s thinking. “That I’m here, I mean?”
With her arms crossed over her chest, she pads toward me.
My exhalation locks up in my lungs, hope and desire suspending the practiced motion of breathing.
As she circles the island and closes the space between us, I lower my knife, shifting to face her.
Rather than stop at my side, she shimmies between my body and the countertop and peers up at me.
“It’s more than okay,” she whispers, blue eyes sparkling.
I grip the countertop on either side of her, effectively trapping her.
With a cheeky smile, she loops her arms around my waist and rests her chin against my chest.
“Hi,” she murmurs, the greeting soft and vulnerable.
“Hi, angel.”
