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I think I have a handle on most of dinner by the time the guys arrive. I don’t leave my hideout in the kitchen as Daphne and Sophia play dutiful hosts. I listen though, trying to pick apart voices until I hear Grant speak up and greet them.
Goose bumps bloom everywhere.
I shake my shoulders and give myself a mini pep talk. So he’s here. That’s fine. I don’t have time to care. I have a lot I still need to prep for dinner.
After I can avoid no longer, I walk out of the kitchen to say hi to everyone. They’re all in the living room.
“Tate, it smells amazing in here,” Dustin says, patting his stomach. “But should we be worried?” He looks to Daphne. “You’re usually the cook. You’re so good at it…”
Daphne doesn’t fail to spin his compliment into an insult on my behalf. “Tate is more than capable of cooking.”
“What are you making?” Josh asks.
“Fajitas with all the fixings.”
“Damn, trying to impress Grant?” Nick asks.
There’s an awkward moment of silence followed by a few forced laughs. I finally muster the courage to look at Grant where he stands near Josh. Never mind the way he looks in those jeans and that simple black t-shirt, the freaking injustice of him having bone structure that defined, eyes that sensual… I try to look at him like I do the rest of the guys, as a friend, and I’m glad to see he’s not scowling at me today. He’s chosen a neutral glower, and hey, I’ll take it.
“Do you like fajitas or something?” I ask, my brows tugged together in confusion.
His expression eases, like he’s almost about to smile, but he doesn’t. “I’m half-Mexican so…yeah.”
Sophia laughs. “Well perfect! Would you mind giving Tate a hand in the kitchen then?”
Every head in the room whips in her direction. She might as well have asked him to throw me over the balcony railing with the way we’re all looking at her, horrified.
What the hell, Sophia?!
I shoot daggers at her then hurry back into the kitchen, knowing it’s in my best interest not to hear all the reasons Grant will come up with to avoid being in my presence. Even if it’s mundane, it’ll still hurt.
I go back to adding lime juice to the guacamole, focusing extremely hard on my task, then Grant walks into the kitchen.
Air? Poof. Gone.
My nerves? Shot.
I clear my throat and force a swallow. “I’m not sure there’s much for you to do…”
“What’s this for?” he asks, ignoring me as he points to the vegetables still sitting in the colander in the sink. “Pico de gallo?”
I nod. “I haven’t gotten to it yet.”
“Is there cilantro?”
“In the fridge.”
“Cutting board?”
So we’re really going to do this? Confine ourselves to this small space?
I finally look at him, and I sound bone-weary when I speak up. “You don’t have to help. I know you don’t want to.”
His eyes meet mine and there’s a hard edge to the way he’s looking at me, like he’s in as much pain as I am.
“I wouldn’t be in here if I didn’t want to help,” he says in a stern tone that sends a shiver of something down my spine.
Someone turns music on in the living room as Grant spots the other wooden cutting board resting against the backsplash in front of me. Instead of asking me to get it for him, he gets it himself, walking up behind me and so-very-nearly brushing against me as he does it. I hold stock-still, and he notices.
There’s a soft chuckle. “Relax.”
I puff out a breath like the suggestion is ludicrous. “Oh, easy for you to say!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t act like things are normal between us. You hate me.”
He rears back. “I absolutely do not hate you.”
I release a disbelieving pfft. “Could have fooled me. The last two times we’ve been around each other it felt like we were about to come to blows! I really thought I was going to kill you in that deli.”
Something in his expression breaks, like it pains him deeply to hear me say this. “I’m trying, Tate. I’m fucking trying as hard as I can here…”
The air whooshes out of my lungs like someone’s just stabbed me.
I don’t say a word. I can’t. I’m rendered mute by his confession.
Tension builds, binding us so tightly we can’t even move. Then finally, he blinks and shakes his head. “Let’s just cook. Okay?”
I nod, knowing it’s in my best interest to accept this temporary ceasefire he’s proposing. I think we’re both aware that this moment could go up in smoke in an instant if one of us gets provoked. We’re like two warring mafiosos trying to break bread together, our armed henchmen hovering behind us with their rifles drawn.
I decide to see if we can’t keep the good will going by striking up what I hope will turn out to be a polite conversation.
