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I take the shirt.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
PIPER
Kyle walks into the kitchen while I’m grating the tomatoes.
I try my best to ignore his presence—his wet hair and bare feet—but I feel my cheeks burn from what I’m affectionately referring to as Bragate. I’ve been on a beach in front of strangers, exposing a lot more. But that felt different from being underdressed in front of Kyle, especially unintentionally. Worse was how unaffected he was by it. Covering me up like a gentleman and making it obvious any attraction was one-sided.
Kyle walks over to the window first, peering outside toward the barn. The rain left everything coated in a light layer of water that hasn’t fully dried. It’ll probably be hot and dusty again in the morning, but for now, it looks serene and clean.
“Any water in your room?” he asks.
The tomato slips, and I almost grate my finger instead. “Uh, no. Not that I saw.”
I look up in time to catch his nod as he walks toward the island.
“Good. Roof held up better than I’d thought. A crew is coming tomorrow to get a new one on.”
I nod. “Okay.”
He clears his throat. “What can I help with?”
“Oh. Uh, nothing. I’m good.”
“You’re not going to let me help prepare the food I paid for?”
“Still hung up on that, huh?” I relax a little since he seems to have forgotten about earlier.
As if reading my mind, he says, “Not really. You flashing me made more of an impression.”
I go back to grating, focusing on the task like I’ll be graded on it later. “You’re probably used to it.”
“Has happened before,” he confirms, which annoys me for some unknown reason.
If Ihadto name it, it’s probably misplaced jealousy.
The water starts to boil, so I dump the fettuccine into the pot and then toss the tomato skins in the compost.
“Well, it was unintentional, so I don’t think it counts.”
Kyle chuckles. “It was also the most memorable.”
There’s a kernel of pride in my chest, which is absolutely ridiculous.
Getting soaked on a tractor isn’t any sort of accomplishment. But it’s the second time today Kyle has suggested I’m notable to him in some way.
Unexpectedly recalling our first interaction from years ago. And now offering up what I guess is supposed to be a compliment. Maybe it’s the competitive spirit in me from being the youngest child, but I like knowing I stood out to him in some way.
I push the half stick of butter, the grater, and a bowl toward him. “Grate that in there.”
I turn before I have the chance to see if he’s following my instructions, rummaging through the fridge until I find the basil and Parmesan. I grab a clove of garlic and the press before turning back toward the stove.
Kyle is grating dutifully, twin lines between his eyes as he focuses on the assignment. It’s cute. Hot. Whatever. My attraction to Kyle has been established. Admitting to a problem is the first step toward overcoming it.
I focus on stirring the pasta and chopping the basil.
“You cook a lot?”
