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“Well, to be fair, the pork chops came in a package of two. It’s rather basic. Pan-seared chops. Rice. Broccoli.” Monroe looked downright sheepish as he passed over the plate. His gaze kept flitting about like I might seriously reject his offering. I wasn’t sure when someone had last cooked specifically for me, and while I was sure the bribe was intended as a peace offering, I wasn’t going to toss it at the wall. “I’m a pretty novice cook, to be honest. Far better sous chef than chef, but you’ve been up here for hours. You need to eat.”
“I like cooking. Mom and Candace were gone enough that I got decent at it, then when the triplets came, I did a fair bit of cooking for Dad and Jessica. I can’t do much fancy, but I know a bunch of stir fry variations and pasta dishes.”
“I got pasta at the store too. And some of the beer you liked the other night. You’re welcome to any of the food I brought in.”
“You got groceries?” I had been so deep in the zone, stripping wallpaper, that I hadn’t registered him leaving. And dinner plus beer? Monroe had to be feeling crazy guilty over what had happened earlier.
“The presence of fresh vegetables on the plate didn’t give me away?” He laughed a little too loud. “Yeah, I did a quick run to the store. Earlier.”
“Earlier.” I drew the word out, layered it with all my vivid memories of our wall-thumping encounter. I glanced over at the speaker. I’d moved from dance music to dreamy alternative tracks, channeling my overly emotional state of mind.
“Look, I know things are awkward…”
“They don’t have to be.” After giving him a pointed stare, I took a bite of food to show I appreciated his gesture and distract myself from reaching for him.
“Can we at least try being roommates? Friends?” Monroe’s smile looked far closer to a grimace. I made a scoffing noise because we both knew that friendship was the barest tip of what we both wanted.
“You really don’t want a second helping of that titanic orgasm?” I asked as I scooped up some rice. It was either eat or try to kiss some sense into Monroe.
“I want to be friends more.” He was lying through his perfectly white teeth, and I’d had enough of his martyr routine.
“Grab a roller.” I pointed at the pan of primer I’d left on the floor, paint rollers on a plastic drop cloth nearby.
“What?” His eyes went wide and startled like I was asking him for a dirty favor. Not that I wasn’t sorely tempted, but I’d said all along I wouldn’t go for the hard sell, and I meant it.
“If we’re friends, I’m going to put you to work while I eat.” I settled my ass on the ladder in the corner.
“Okay.” Monroe headed to the primer, and damn if his ease with taking orders wasn’t one of the sexiest things about him. I loved that, for all he appeared to be a stereotypical military alpha male, he seemed to have zero interest in posturing or being bossy only to prove a point. “I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t painted before.”
“Long, firm, even strokes, Monroe. Long, firm, even strokes.” I winked at him.
He groaned and laughed at the same time. “I guess I walked right into that.”
“You did.” I grinned at him. “You should take your shirt off.”
“Knox.”
I held up my hand, the picture of innocence. “Because it’s a nice shirt, and you don’t want to ruin it. Paint tip number two: drips happen.”
“Oh. Yeah. Be right back.” Adorably, Monroe skedaddled from the room as if showing me his bare chest was somehow more scandalous than grinding together earlier. Or like I couldn’t be trusted to not jump him if I spied nipples and chest fuzz. He returned a minute or so later in an older shirt advertising a charity 10k run in DC.
I had to chuckle at the mirrored ball and eighties font on the front of the shirt. “You did a disco-themed 10k run?”
“It was for a good cause.” Monroe’s tone was between embarrassed and defensive as he started rolling primer onto the bare part of the wall. “And I like music.”
The memory of how well we danced together hung heavy between us, a potent crackly energy I could have exploited. But I was good and didn’t even flirt. “Me too. I pretty much always have an internal soundtrack going.”
“I’ve noticed. It’s cute.” That crackly energy turned warm and welcoming. For all Monroe kept insisting we were roommates and friends, he sure looked at me with the same fondness lacing his words. “For me, it’s less an internal soundtrack and more that certain moments trigger musical memories. And vice versa.”
“Oh, that too. Any time I hear this one hip-hop NBA jam, I remember the first time I met Candace, my mom’s wife. And there’s this sappy country love song from Dad and Jessica’s wedding. Other times, I smell coffee, and this jingle comes into my head.”
