AllFreeNovel
Share Us
If she’s wearing makeup, I can’t see it, although her lashes are luscious and thick. And her mouth is a deep shade of raspberry that I can practically taste just by looking at it.
I want to devour her.
“Hello,” she says, a bemused look on her face. I realize it’s been several seconds of staring. “I parked in the space markedV. I assume that means visitor, not vengeance or vandalize.”
And there she goes, making me laugh already. “Or vixen.”
“Ah. Back to that.” Her coy expression tells me she doesn’t mind. “If so, I nailed my choice.”
I move aside, and she steps in with a deep inhale. “I smell the fresh scent of chopped vegetables,” she says. “This is not the smell you encounter in my house, hardly ever. It’s all cups of Good Noodles and granola bars with me.”
I refrain from making a quip about her diet. I never would, knowing where she came from, where a cup of noodles kept you from going to bed hungry.
I close the door, feeling awkward. I should kiss her or something. I’ve invited her here after seducing her multiple times.
But she’s happy to wander the space, hands clasped behind her back. “Sasha hasn’t gotten lost again, has she?”
As if on cue, the kitten bounds into the room and leaps onto the back of the sofa.
Ensley bends down to pet her soft head. “There you are, you little troublemaker. No hard feelings about the good scrubbing we gave you?”
The rumbling purr is evidence that she holds no grudges.
Ensley sets her purse on the side table and turns to me. “All I’ve had today is a cup of coffee and the croissant you bought this morning. My sisters took all the rest.”
“Then I should get started,” I say.
“I’m happy to help.”
We head into the kitchen. “It sounds like you’re not super familiar with kitchen work,” I say.
She bumps her hip against me. “I can learn. And I have chopped a potato before. I used to dig them up from the community garden even though technically I wasn’t allowed.” Her eyes grow wide as she takes in all the work I’ve already done. “It looks like you have it well under control.”
Even so, I give her the minor task of prepping the hash browns as I whisk the eggs and melt butter in the omelet pan.
“The oil is hot,” she says.
I nod and take a moment to slide the potatoes into the pan.
She leans her elbows on the counter, chin resting in her hands. “I can’t believe you have a special pan for omelets. I have a big one and a little one, and they have to do everything.”
“What do you like to cook?”
“Good Noodles.” She laughs. “That and baking cookie dough are ninety percent of my efforts. But Icancook. I used to make a great spaghetti sauce back in the day. I could stretch it for days if I got my hands on some tomatoes or even a cheap can of puree. I used to swipe basil off the bush at old man Ferrell’s house.”
“I’d love to try it sometime.” I almost mention the lemon larceny as well, but decide to let it go.
When she doesn’t respond, I drag my gaze from the melting butter to glance over at her. Her brows are pushed together.
“No cooking for me?” I ask.
She takes her time answering. “But this is date three already. I won’t get a chance.”
Oh, that. The decision to limit them seems a lifetime ago.
The butter bubbles, so I’m saved from having to reply.
I pour the eggs into the pan and begin sliding it across the surface of the burner.
