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“I love to cook. Cooking is therapeutic for me. Did you know twenty-eight percent of Americans don’t know how to cook, and ninety percent just don’t like doing it? They’re too busy, and they want something fast and easy. They don’t realize they’re missing out on something amazing. My best memories growing up were sitting on a stool in our kitchen and my dad teaching me how to cook. He’d let me crack the eggs and measure stuff, and we’d talk about everything and anything while we did it.”
I stop rambling when my throat gets tight and tears fill my eyes, thinking about my dad. This is the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other, not to mention talking. As much as he smothered me, I still miss him like crazy. I miss telling him about my day and my plans for the library. I miss talking about the books we’d read together. I hate not knowing if he’s okay, if he’s remembering to take his vitamins, or if he’s filling up on junk food and forgetting to eat his vegetables.
Feeling Vincent’s eyes on me, I quickly start shoving eggs in my mouth to stop myself from crying like a baby in front of him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here as soon as I finish eating and clean up the dishes,” I tell him in between bites, grabbing my toast and inhaling that as well.
I realize it’s totally unladylike, and bits of toast are falling out of my mouth when I speak, but I don’t care. It’s better than crying.
“You’re staying.”
The toast gets stuck in my throat and I start coughing, quickly grabbing my orange juice and taking a huge swallow. When I get myself under control, I turn on my stool and stare at him.
“Excuse me?”
He finishes up his last bite of scrambled eggs, letting the fork clatter on top of the empty plate.
“I said you’re staying.”
Pushing his stool back from the counter, he gets up, taking his plate over to the sink and dropping it in before turning around and leaning against the counter, crossing his arms.
“I’m not staying here. I can’t stay here. I barely know you!”
“I think we’ve established that I’m not going to slice your body into tiny little pieces and bury you in a field somewhere,” he deadpans.
I can feel my face flush, remembering what I said to him right before I passed out in his truck last night.
“Fine, so you’re not a serial killer. That still doesn’t negate the fact that I don’t know anything about you, other than you’re friends with PJ, you work at Charming’s, and we like the same books,” I remind him.
“What do you want to know?”
How often do you work out? Do you work out naked? Can I watch?
“What’s your last name?”
“Adams,” he quickly replies.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Do you have parents?”
“No. I was raised by a pack of wolves.”
This time I definitely see the corner of his mouth twitch before he continues.
“Tom and Laura Adams. Married for thirty-five years. Vacationed in Paris five years ago and decided to stay.”
My shoulders droop, and my mouth turns down into a frown.
“Don’t,” he mutters.
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face is like an open book. I don’t have abandonment issues. They come home several times a year, and I talk to them on the phone more than is necessary. My mother is chatty. You remind me of her.”
Oh, eew. Not exactly the kind of thing you want to hear from a guy who makes your heart all aflutter.
“If you don’t stay here, where are you going to go?”
And that right there is the million-dollar question, isn’t it? I don’t have anywhere else to go, but I don’t want him to know that and feel sorry for me. It’s bad enough he knows I’ve been living at the library, he doesn’t need to know why. And also, I have manners. I don’t want to impose, or cramp his style. What if he wants to have people over? Oh, my God, what if he wants to have a woman over?
“Oh, don’t mind the weird girl sitting in the corner, spouting random useless facts. She doesn’t mind. Just try not to scream too loudly when I take you back to my bedroom and show you how much better a man is compared to a boy.”
“I’m not here much, anyway,” he continues. “I’m at Charming’s until all hours of the morning, unless I have a night off like last night. And then when I am here, I sleep half the day. We probably won’t even see each other.”
I make sure my face is devoid of emotion so he doesn’t know how much I do not like that idea. I want to get to know him better. I want to know why he lives all alone in this beautiful cottage out in the middle of nowhere. I want to experience more of those butterflies he gives me. I like him. I like his company. I like the way he listens and doesn’t get annoyed when I ramble.
