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“Your girlfriend’s not around, I take it?” I move past him into the hallway as he closes the door behind me.
“We broke up.”
I raise my eyebrows. Wow. I wasn’t expecting him to actually tell her.
“It’s a long story I’d rather not go into right now. But to be honest, it should have been over a long time ago.”
Huh. I shrug and make my way into the living room, throwing myself on his sofa. His eyes fall on my legs as I fold one over the other, tucking them up under my ass.
“Make yourself at home,” he says and smirks.
“I’ll take a drink, if you’re offering.” I grin. “A wine would be nice,” I call out.
“That’s what I get for assuming you’d want a beer,” he calls back.
“Just because I’m a college student, Mr. B., doesn’t mean I don’t like the finer things in life.”
He comes back in carrying a bottle of white wine and two glasses.
“Would you stop calling me that? I feel like a creep.”
“You’re not a creep,” I say and laugh. “I may be a student, but I’m also a woman. Just as much an adult as you are,” I add, a little too indignant.
He shakes his head and laughs as he pours two glasses and hands one to me.
“I honestly have no response for that.” He chuckles. “What do you feel like for dinner?”
I swing my legs over and stand up, setting my drink down on the side table next to an ugly-looking lamp.
“How about I cook you something?” I suggest.
He looks skeptical. “You cook?”
“Just because your ex could burn boiling water doesn’t mean we’re all like that. Females were born to be in the kitchen, right? It’s in our nature to know how to cook,” I say lightly. I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge. I spot a package of chicken drumsticks, which I pull out, and some fresh greens.
“You…surprise me,” he finishes. “So where did you learn to cook?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “I’m an army brat, remember? I’ve lost count of the number of times I had to cook for myself. Dad was always away and Mom worked late, which left me and my brother.” I make a face. “Trust me, after tasting his food, you learn to cook pretty fucking quick.”
“Now that you say it, I remember you telling me that before. So what are you making?” he asks, leaning against the counter.
“My specialty. Mexican chicken with fresh tortillas.” I scrunch my nose up. “That’s if you have flour?”
He points to a large white container.
“Great. Okay, I’ll need more wine, music, and you sitting there, preferably with your shirt off.”
He laughs. “My shirt off?”
“Yes. Inspiration.” I wink. Shaking his head, he walks back out to the other room for our drinks while I get started.
When Noah reemerges into the kitchen, his shirt is missing and his hands are filled with wineglasses and the bottle of white we cracked open. It would appear that Mr. Bain is excellent at following directions.
Standing behind the counter, staring out at him over the island, I prepare all my ingredients and start working on the meal.
“So, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Noah asks, catching me off guard. Usually, we don’t speak of the future.
“I haven’t really decided yet. I thought before I wanted to go into fashion, but there’s really nothing I can do with that degree once I graduate. Considered being an English major, b
