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She rolls her eyes, getting to her feet. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been taking online cooking classes. I can cook now.”
I stare at her warily. She crosses her arms, seemingly offended.
“I’ve changed, Roman.”
My eyes trail over her face as I take those words in. “You really have, haven’t you?”
CHAPTER21
Elena
Contrary to what I said, I don’t actually possess the ability to whip up a complete meal on my own. Yet. But I can make us some sandwiches. I’m thinking grilled cheese.
I head to the kitchen, hyped to prepare something for someone other than myself. Kiara is still wary about my cooking so I’ve had to practice on my own. Roman’s about to be my first test subject without being aware of the fact.
I grab all the ingredients. Some bread, cheese, and some vegetables. I’m chopping up the onions when Roman walks into the kitchen. He eyes me warily and I roll my eyes.
What’s a girl got to do to get some trust?
“Do you need help?”
“No. I’m perfectly capable of making a sandwich,” I inform him.
He hums but doesn’t leave. I huff out a breath and look up at him.
“Roman, would you go? I told you I’ve got it,” I say in frustration.
Unfortunately, I forget what I’m doing and the fact that I’m currently holding a knife. It slips out of my hand, slicing my finger before clattering onto the wooden surface of the slab.
“Ouch!” I yell, holding out the finger that’s rapidly seeping out blood.
Roman leaps into action, rushing to my side. “Fucking hell, Elena.”
He grabs a cloth and presses it over the wound.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I cry.
He rolls his eyes. “Chill out, it’s just a tiny cut.”
“Are you kidding? Just a tiny cut? Look at all that blood. I think I need to get to the E.R. I need stitches, Rome,” I say dramatically.
Surprisingly, he smiles. It’s not a half-smile, either, but a full-blown, honest-to-God smile that knocks the breath out of me. For a second, I forget to move. I just stare at him until he’s looking into my eyes.
“Are you done with the dramatics?” he questions.
I nod slowly.
“Alright, come on,” he tells me.
Before I can blink, he’s lifting me by my waist onto the kitchen island. Heat sears into my skin at his touch.
“Where’s the first-aid kit?”
I gesture at one of the cabinets and he moves to grab it while I ignore the pounding in my chest. When he returns, Roman steps between my legs. He’s eye level with me, his attention focused on the wound that’s still bleeding. Not for long, though. He works quickly, quietly, cleaning the wound before applying some ointment. I hiss out a breath at the sting.
“Don’t be a baby, we’ve already got one,” he says gruffly.
“Jerk.” I pout.
