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I bristle. “I don’t need your help.”
“Could have fooled me with the way you were holding onto that handle for dear life.”
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Perhaps there is some riveting documentary about spreadsheets or expense reports you can go fall asleep to?”
He laughs, and it feels like the clouds parted and heaven graced us with a miracle.
Oh, Iris. This is how it all starts.
I recognize the warmth seeping through my chest as he smiles at me.
I hate it. I love it. And I can’t seem to stop myself from craving more of it.
He smiles. “I actually came down to eat.”
“Great. I’ll leave you to it then.” I drench my noodles with pasta sauce before stepping away from the counter. I’ll clean the mess up later once Declan goes away.
“Or you could stay.”
“What?” I blink.
“I never said you had to leave.”
Shit. If I leave, it makes me seem unequipped to handle him for long spans of time without adult supervision.
Probably because it’s true.It’s one thing to spend time around him in an office; it’s a whole other thing to interact with him in the confines of our home.
I shake my head. “Oh no. I had plans to eat upstairs anyway.”
His eyes drop to the napkin and shiny cutlery I set down. When he looks back up, his eyes seem to brighten. “Do I make you nervous?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
His grin widens.
No wonder the man doesn’t smile often. The world wouldn’t stand a chance against him if he were to use them more frequently.
He opens a cabinet and grabs an empty plate before loading it with a healthy amount of noodles. “If it makes you feel better, we could talk about work.”
My horrified expression can’t be masked. “How is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Because it’s normal.”
“Doesn’t make it right!” I laugh.
The skin around his eyes tightens. “I concede. No talking about work.”
“Fine. But only because you seem pathetically in need of some company.” I drop into the barstool with defeat. During the limited time Declan and I have interacted in the house, we have never eaten together. He seems to always busy himself in his office while I cook a sad meal for one. And unlike our fake date, this feels intimate. At least significantly more intimate than eating in a restaurant full of people for show.
He situates himself beside the placemat I put out for myself.
“So…” I grab my fork.
His eyes reflect his amusement as he lets me stammer through the silence.
“I don’t like this game you’re playing.”
“And what game is that?” He clutches onto his fork and twirls it in his pasta. His elbow touches mine, and I suck in a breath at the sensation shooting up my arm.
