“Or not. It’s okay if you had other plans.” I don’t understand what in her head flips a switch from sure and owning her shit to this version of her, who doesn’t think she can hold her own. “Never mind.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“I’m a good cook. I promise.” She chuckles nervously. “I know I break a lot of shit, and overall, you’ve had to save me more times than I’d like to admit, but I am a good cook—when I’m not burning pot pies and all.”
“I know.” Doesn’t she remember that? Why is she acting like this, as if me saying yes or no holds more meaning than anything else?
“Then why won’t you come?”
Yeah, Dom, why not?
I hesitate because I can’t tell her the real reasons. I can’t tell her she terrifies the hell out of me. I never lose control, but with her, it feels like I never have it, and she’s the one pulling all the strings.
“Come on. It’s just dinner.” She holds my hand, trying to pull me to the cabin but unable to move me. Despite my better judgment, I let her. I’m tired of fighting the way I feel when I’m around her— light, comfortable,happy.
It’s been a long damn time since I’ve been happy.
Her hand never drops mine until we make it to her kitchen, where two empty bowls and a slow cooker sit on the dining table.
“No crackers today?” I ask, taking my hat off and setting it on the counter.
She twirls her hair behind her, exposing the tight tank top hugging her frame. Goddamn.
Not that it’s hard to remember how perfect her body is, especially when she wears the tiny outfits that shouldn’t even be considered clothing every morning to run, but it never ceases to amaze me all the same.
She walks past me to the chair. She has to know the effect she has on people, the one she has on me, with her strong legs, her now tanned skin that glistens like she's been dipped in cinnamon sugar, and the slight tint of her cheeks when she catches me ogling her.
Shit.
My attraction to her is getting harder to deny and harder to hide. I can’t tell if this is a one-sided attraction or not, and I can’t lose time thinking about it either. It can’t happen.
“Some grump scolded me over crackers not being dinner. I made soup.”
“What kind?” I ask, taking a seat opposite her at the table.
“The good looking, overbearing kind,” she replies in a giggle, leading me to pinch my nose so I don’t growl. What the fuck?
“I meant the soup, Riley. What kind of soup?”
“Swamp soup.” She takes the lid off the pot and serves us both a bowl of what looks like Lainey’s soup she made all fall and winter long. “It’s a family recipe and the first thing I learned to make. Can’t fuck this one up when all you have to do is dump shit into a bowl.” She takes a bite of her soup, flinching when it hits the roof of her mouth.
This is not the first time she’s said something like that, and each time, it makes me more and more confused. She’s capable of so much; I’ve seen it, and I’ve only known her for a couple of weeks. So why does she believe the worst?
I take a bite of the soup too, and goddamn, it’s everything I was expecting and more.
“You don’t have to eat it if it’s not good.”
Why is she second-guessing herself right now? “What makes you think it’s not?”
“The scowl on your face.”
Fuck.
“It’s not because of the soup. This is delicious.” I take another bite for good measure.
“Oh yeah? Then what is that all about, then?” She moves her hand in the air in front of my face.
“I was wondering why the hell you think you’re not good at this. This is fantastic,andI had your pot pie too, all of it. So I know you’re a good cook.”
