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“Why?”
“My stomach has been making weird twisty turns all day.”
“Twisty turns?” He barks out a laugh.
“Don’t make fun of me. When I get nervous my stomach hurts.”
“Did you want me to cancel? Can I get you something? Want some water? Some medicine?” he spits out the questions in rapid fire succession. I can’t help but giggle at him being so caring and thoughtful.
“Stop it. I’m fine.” I round the kitchen island and start opening up some cabinets. “Help me get acclimated to this ginormous kitchen. Tell me where the bowls are.”
“I keep them in the pantry,” he says as he holds an arm out to guide me towards the sliding door on the side of the kitchen.
As soon as he opens it, my jaw falls to the floor. It’s massive. I think it’s bigger than my closet in my apartment. Just… messier. Bowls and kitchen appliances are scattered everywhere and mixed in with the assortment of snacks and cooking ingredients. This causes my organization receptors in my brain to fire a million different directions. My skin is actually crawling at the urge to reorganize this right now.
“It’s too big.”
“No, it’s a damn mess.”
“It’s not that bad.” Marc laughs as he makes his way to the shelf that holds the bowls. “See? I know exactly where the bowls were.”
“You need to hand over your credit card immediately.”
“For what?”
“I’m reorganizing this entire thing. You can’t live like this.” I shake my head as I fully step in and spin around the pantry. “Hell,Iwon’t be able to sleep knowing you live like this.”
He laughs again. “What do you need my credit card for?”
“I’m going to The Container Store and getting you some things to make this the best and most organized pantry you’ve ever seen.”
Marc runs his hands down his face. “Ok, fine. Whatever makes you happy.”
Whatever makes me happy.
My stomach swirls with butterflies at the man willing to please me with such a simple task. I mean, this would makehislife easier. But my love for organizing things would makemereally happy at the opportunity to tackle this.
“Let’s get to cooking,” I announce.
Within minutes we have all the ingredients ready to prepare. Marc pulls out a glass baking dish and begins to spread the apples in it.
“What in the world made you fall in love with organization so much?” Marc asks.
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly, stirring in the remaining ingredients in the bowl. “I just developed this sick obsession back in high school with seeing things neatly organized. I love color coded papers and pens, baskets sitting nicely on shelves, and clothes organized in the closet by the length of the sleeve.”
He laughs. “The length of the sleeve?”
“When you walk into the closet, the first shirts you should see are tank tops. After that is a row of short sleeve shirts, followed by long sleeves. The back of the closet should be dresses and more formal attire that doesn’t get worn very often. I’ve been organizing like that for as long as I can remember.” I feel my cheeks heat up as I admit all of this, so I stir the dry ingredients in the bowl more than they need to be. “I know, I’m a total weirdo.”
“I don’t think that.”
I look up to meet his stare without saying a single word, and I don’t miss the fact Marc’s features have softened. He’s so close that if I leaned in just an inch, he’d suck me into his orbit more than he already has. The buzzer on the microwave pulls him away from me, and I feel like I’ve just been saved by the bell. Literally.
I continue to stir the ingredients as he grabs the melted butter from the microwave, and I feel his body press against me as his strong arms cage me on the counter. I watch as Marc reaches around me, pouring the butter into the bowl in front of me, his rock hard body, pressed against my back.
I try like hell to fight off the way my body reacts to him being so close to me until I feel his breath on my neck before he says, “I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself a weirdo again. Understood?”
I nod in response, unable to form a coherent sentence right now. Marc doesn’t leave the space behind me when he reaches into the mixture and scoops up a small dollop of oats, brown sugar, cinnamon and melted butter on his index finger. The other hand wraps around my throat, holding me in place as he brings the mixture to my lips. I open up for him, sucking the mixture off his finger.
