It’s been less than a week since we kissed, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it. At first, I was frustrated with the town talking about what happened at the beach. What was such a special moment between us became town gossip, just like this whole “relationship.”
When it was just the two of us, I didn’t want to ignore it anymore. I wanted to feel the fire course through my veins when Liam’s large, calloused hands grabbed my waist and held me firmly against him. I wanted to lose all sanity in favor of getting one single whiff of his oak and vanilla scent that clung to my shirt like I’ve done with the memory.
The masculine scent is fading but the black tank top is still hanging over my bedroom chair, unwashed.
I’m nervous to let my walls down with Liam any more than I have, because it feels so damn enticing just looking at him; but my willpower is only so strong.
“Yes, but I need to cook,” I say, not nearly as stern as I had imagined.
He nods and leans closer. His breath fans across my lips when he says, “Just a quick taste, honey.”
I inhale sharply as his lips press against mine. It’s a tender greeting—one I’ll need to be careful not to get attached to.
Liam’s arms tighten around me when one of my hands runs up his chest and grabs onto the back of his neck. I open a little for him and he doesn’t waste a second before his tongue slides against mine, deepening the kiss.
A small, needy moan claws its way out of my throat and this aggravating manpulls away.
Confused, my eyes flutter open and find him smirking down at me.
“Let’s make dinner,” he says, mentally dousing me in lukewarm water. His heady gaze and tight grip on my waist is evidence of how difficult ending the moment is for him. “Do you want help?”
As I round the corner of the island, I assess him, trying to figure out if his offer is genuine or out of obligation.
I’m not a tyrant in the kitchen. Maybe if I had actually become a chef I would be, but I’m not someone who is going to turn down help—unless Liam proves himself to be truly incompetent.
“Depends,” I say and walk to the sink. “Are you a bad sous chef?”
He follows my lead and washes his hands.
I don’t let go of the towel, drying his hands for him. I avoid his eyes the entire time. It’s such a simple gesture but is loaded with affection I’m not ready to acknowledge yet.
Catching my hands around the towel before I can pull away, he waits for me to look at him and murmurs, “I can follow directions, if that counts for anything.”
I swallow and involuntarily eye his lips again. “I remember.”
A slow smile pulls at his lips. “Tell me where you need me, honey.”
After a long moment, I turn away, breaking the spell we’re under. “Do you think you can handle shredding cheese?”
Letting out a pent up breath, he nods and plasters on an easygoing grin. “That I can do.”
Everything is already set up along the island. It’s nothing fancy, but Liam’s mentioned a few times that he misses home-cooked meals. He’s not incompetent, but seems to only have a few convenient recipes memorized. I get it—cooking takes time, including prep and clean up. It’s also not everyone’s favorite hobby, and I think it’s ridiculous to be judgmental about that.
Hell, Asher is one of DoorDash’s most frequent customers, and he’s, overall, a responsible adult.
Spread out are the makings for breaded chicken, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and a salad. It's a simple comfort meal after the day he has had, and one most people love.
“I was expecting spaghetti,” he says. “Out of a jar.”
I snicker. “You’re lucky I actually enjoy cooking. There’s just never the time or people for it.”
“Really?” he asks in surprise. “Your family seems to be close.”
“We are.” I begin prepping the chicken. “But my mom and the Millers enjoy getting to take care of us and want to hold onto that responsibility for as long as possible.”
“I get that. My mom shows her love through cooking, too.”
I hum in acknowledgement. “Were your sisters and mom sad that you moved?”
