“Yeah,” she admits. She takes a deep breath, and then her head falls and lands in the middle of my chest. I pet her head and let her rest like that for as long as she wants. “I need a long shower, some food, and ten hours of sleep.” What I would like to do is take her inside and have her sit with me on the couch.
My hand moves to the side of her face before I put my finger under her chin to lift it to look at me. “Then let’s get you inside.” I move her away from her car, closing the door and grabbing her bag. “You have your keys?” She holds the keys up in her hand as we walk up the steps.
She turns on the soft entrance light as I close the door behind her. “I’m going to make you something to eat,” I tell her as she reaches for the bag in my hand. “What do you want?”
“I don’t really have anything in mind.” She tries to grab the bag from me, and I move it out of her reach.
“You can sort the bag later. Shower.” I motion with my chin toward her room. “If you fight me on this, I have no problem carrying you there and undressing you to put you in the shower.” Her gray eyes go dark blue. “Your choice,” I smirk.
“I’m going to get in the shower,” she mumbles.
“Really wanted you to go with door number two,” I tell her, retreating back.
I put the bag on the table and open the fridge. I scan a couple of things before taking out a pack of chicken breasts and some peppers. I find an onion and slice the vegetables first, then put them in the frying pan. I cook a chicken breast in strips once the veggies are tender, seasoning it with the few spices she has.
I heat some oil in a fresh pan, open two tortillas, put chicken in them, and then add the veggie mixture before topping them off with cheddar cheese and some salsa. I fold them over and lay them in the frying pan.
“It smells good in here.” She comes back into the room wearing a pair of lounge pants and a tank top, her hair now out of the ponytail but piled on top of her head. “What are you making?”
“My version of a chicken quesadilla.”
“Well, whatever it is, my mouth is watering.” She smiles at me.
“Do you want to go and sit on the couch until it’s ready?”
“I’m good waiting with you.” She pulls out a chair and sits, looking at me. “What time do you start work?”
“Seven.” I flip the tortillas in the pan to the other side.
“What?” she says, shocked. “You start work at seven, and you are here at three in the morning?”
“Yeah,” I confirm, as if it’s not a big deal. “I set my alarm for two-thirty.”
“Do you go back home after you leave here?”
“No,” I admit. “I start work so I can maybe finish early.” I shrug. “That hasn’t been the case the last couple of days.” I don’t bother telling her the reason why.
“So how many hours of sleep do you get?” I grab a plate and put one of the tortillas on it.
“Enough.” I know I said I wasn’t going to lie to her, but if I tell her I’m averaging four hours a night, she might refuse to see me. “You want sour cream?”
“Do I have sour cream?” She laughs nervously.
“You do.” I cut the tortilla in two, putting the plate down in front of her before getting the sour cream. “I wish I had bought guacamole.”
“Are you going to sit with me?” I smile and nod my head, but I grab some fruit before I do.
She takes a bite of the tortilla and groans. “This is so good. How do you know how to cook?”
“I like to watch cooking shows,” I confess to her, “and after I moved out of my parents’ house, I got tired of fast food really quickly, so it was either learn to cook or starve.” She laughs. “Do you know how to cook?”
“A bit.” She takes another bite. “I learned really young that if I didn’t cook for myself, I would starve.” She avoids my eyes. “My parents weren’t the best.” She shrugs, and I know I need to ask her about it, but I don’t want her to shut down on me.
“What is your favorite thing to cook?”
“Probably chicken-fried steak.” I make a note to grab a recipe online. “But with the real sausage gravy.” She laughs. “It’s not as good as the kind the real Southern grandmothers make, but if I ever get a wild hair on a day off, I try to make it.”
“When is your next day off?”
