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“I—what?” I tear my eyes away from his totally normal, andnotadorable feet.
“Food allergies.” He prompts.
“No.”
“Good.” He tips his head toward the kitchen, and as I follow, I notice that the house smells good. Like, Italian restaurant level good. “Did you cook dinner?”
This comes out every bit as shocked sounding as I feel. He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “It’s dinner time.” He says, as though this explains why he would cook forme, personally.
I stand awkwardly in the center of the room as he goes to the stove and lifts the lid off of a pot. Steam rises around him and he leans in, like he’s smelling it. That tightness in my throat grows as I survey this little display of domesticity. I feel like a voyeur, seeing something I have no right to. He adds something to the pot, a spice of some kind by the looks of it, and turns around. He does a slight double take when he sees me hovering in the middle distance between the kitchen and the living room.
“You can have a seat.” He waves a hand toward the room in general, and I cautiously slide onto a barstool. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Uh, maybe some water, please.” I watch as he grabs a glass and fills it, sliding it over to me across the island. I’m a little uncomfortable about him serving me anything, when I came here to beg his forgiveness. He should have spit in the glass before giving it to me.
“Do you like spaghetti?” He asks, and I nod. “It’s a recipe I’ve been tweaking, trying to make it more diet-plan-approved. I hope you don’t mind being my guinea pig.”
He looks so earnest, like spaghetti is a serious thing. “I wasn’t expecting you to cook for me.”
“I like to do it.”I know, I think, remembering the article I had read about him years ago, where the interviewer had asked if he had any hobbies. “Besides, I could hardly invite you over this late and not feed you.”
“I kind of invited myself over.” I want him to smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his attention to a cutting board and starts chopping up vegetables that I’m certain don’t belong in spaghetti. “Do you need any help?”
“No, I’m almost finished and then it will need to sit for a while.” He glances up at me, a flash of blue beneath dark brows. “Talk first or eat first?”
“Talk.” I say, automatically. My stomach is tied up in so many knots, if I try to eat now, I’ll vomit on his floor.
He nods, not looking up from what he’s doing. I try not to stare, but unless I want to watch the water on the stove boil, there isn’t much else to look at. He has the hands of a concert pianist, dexterous and long-fingered; I want to suck on those fingers. Taking a sip of water, I turn my head and look out the windows toward his backyard, reminding myself what it is I’m here for, and that thoughts like that are what got me into trouble in the first place.
By the time he finishes whatever magic he’s performing to make the house smell like this, I’ve got a crick in my neck from how pointedly I’mnotstaring at him. He hangs his hands loose by his sides, hip leaned against the counter in front of him.
“Alright.” He says, cautiously. “You said you wanted to talk?”
“I need to apologize for what happened back in Florida, for the way I acted. I should never have come onto you like that, not when you were so young.” I inhale and look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Corwin.”
This guy could give the David a run for its money, for all the reaction his face has. It drives me nuts. “I was eighteen.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to expound on this totally irrelevant fact. “I know.” I say, finally.
“I was eighteen, so not that young. You don’t have to apologize for coming onto me, I was an adult.”
Oh, dear lord.“I’m ten years older than you, Corwin, which…you know what, never mind. That’s not all I’m apologizing for. I’m sorry about everything, I wish that night had never happened.”
“Oh.” There is a slight pull between his eyebrows, and he sounds confused and maybe a little bit hurt. I’m going to have to unpack that later, though, because now that I’m on a roll I can’t stop.
“I’m also sorry about charging you during the Thanksgiving game last season. I didn’t mean to injure you.”
“It was only a minor concussion.”
I don’t know if he means this to be placating, but it’s not. I feel fucking worse. “I’m sorry. I’m just really goddamned sorry.”
His eyes widen a bit, and he looks uncertain. “You can’t possibly think I’d hold that against you.”
“Maybe not that alone, but everything? Yeah. You’d be insane not to hold it against me.”
“Nigel.” He says, and the use of my first name snaps my remaining restraint. What the hell is so hard for him to understand? Does he really not remember? I talk over him before he can continue.
“I fuckingassaultedyou. How many times did you tell me to stop before you had toshove me off?”
