I pretend to focus on meal prep as he crosses the living room and disappears into a room off the hallway. I try to activate my superhearing but can’t catch anything beyond a few hushed murmurs. In fact,imagining Ben in his bedroom makes my pulse go haywire. I wonder if I’ll get to see it. It seems only fair, since he’s seen mine—and, you know, slept in my bed.
I take stock of the situation. Ben’s mom said she’s “heard so much” about me. I’d chalked that up to your standard southern small talk, but now that I know he told her I’mpretty? That’s kind of a big deal, right? Should I acknowledge that I heard it? Is there even a way to bring it up without sounding like I’m fishing for compliments? I’m thinking no. Guess I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear it. No point in making things awkward. Or awkwarder.
I belatedly look around, taking in his apartment for the first time. It’s slightly larger than mine and newer, though very bachelor pad–ish in décor—brown leather couches, lots of heavy wooden furniture, a giant flat-screen mounted on the wall. It could use a woman’s touch, the overall effect a little dark. If I lived here I’d pick a lighter paint color, hang some art, add some plants. Every home needs something green and alive—like Ben himself, I guess you could say.
If I lived here?Settle down, Kate.
I think I was expecting something more like his office, with towering piles of paper and detritus everywhere, but it’s surprisingly neat. Everything has a place, and everything in its place.Darn.He’d be so much less appealing if he were a hoarder or something. I vow to unearth more of his flaws. I should check his cable history; it can tell you a lot about a person. My eyes snake down the hallway like a burglar casing the joint. Maybe I can find some closets to rummage through.
I’m demurely cutting peppers when he emerges from his room, smiling tightly. I remind myself not to make things weird.
I last about three seconds. “So, what have you told your mom about me?” I can’t help myself. I’m the worst.
He exhales. “I just told her about dinner with your mom, that’s all. Don’t go getting any ideas.”
He crosses to the fridge and pulls out a couple of water bottles, handing one to me. It’s one of the things I’ve noticed about him, his innate good manners. He doesn’t sayWater’s in the fridge, help yourself; he goes and gets me one, always without being asked. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, which is probably the sexiest part.
I’ve got this virile man-god standing in front of me, and hismannersare what turn me on. Go figure.
“What ideas would I get,Benjy?”
That you think about me too? That you can’t help but talk about me to other people? That you’re in love with me?
Whoa. Where did that last one come from?SETTLE DOWN, KATE.
He huffs and walks out to his TV, crouching down to open a media cabinet. “See, this is why I said to let the call ring through. You of all people know how moms are, always trying to pair us off. I don’t need her thinking we’re halfway down the aisle or something,” he mutters. A second later, music fills the air. A second earlier and I wouldn’t have heard it.
I freeze, knife poised above the jalapeño, as a painful ache unfurls inside my chest. I think the dismissive tone he used hurts even more than his words. He may as well have said,What a crazy idea, you and me.
This is ridiculous.It was an offhanded comment, nothing more. Of course we aren’t halfway down the aisle; we’re not even dating. I have no right to care about this.
Then why are your hands shaking?
I set the knife down very deliberately. “Can you point me to your restroom?”
“Sure, it’s just down the hall.” He’s walked back into the kitchen now but stops when he sees the look on my face. “You okay?”
“Yep,” I say brightly, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I just need”—you—“uh, the bathroom.”
I don’t wait for a response, brushing past him as I flee down the hallway. Maybe I can blame the onion.
Ten seconds later I’m in his bathroom and staring at my reflection in the mirror, gulping lungfuls of air and willing myself not to cry.
This is not good. I’m in real trouble here.
How did I get here? And byhere, I’m not talking about Ben’s bathroom, which is irresistibly scented with his pine forest cologne or body wash or whatever the hell this intoxicating smell is that’s driving me slowly insane. With each breath I suck in, he tunnels a little deeper into my chest. I should have picked a different place to hyperventilate.
How did I go from hating Ben with the fiery passion of a thousand suns to being reduced nearly to tears by his casual dismissal of our relationship? Should I have seen this coming? If I rewind time, could I pinpoint the second, the moment, the interaction that changed everything?
Somewhere along the line, I stopped despising him and started dreaming about him. Hoping he’d touch me, argue with me, notice me.
Want me.
How can I be falling for someone who’s so obviously wrong for me? I’m smarter than this. Ben and I together would be a disaster. We’re oil and water. Hamilton and Burr. Kanye and Taylor Swift. We don’t mix.
What am I supposed to do now? I’mcookingfor him, for crying out loud. Like I’m his girlfriend or something. And what’s the deal with Corinne, anyway? Is he dating her or not? And if he is, does she know Ben’s inviting other women to his apartment at night?
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I need to come up with a plan of attack. I can’t let on that I’ve just had an existential crisis in hisbathroom. I’m good with lists. I’m even better at crossing things off. So here’s what I come up with:
