He starts opening cabinets, not stopping until he finds the ones with my dinnerware, pulling out two bowls and a plate, setting them on the island by the food he brought. Then he goes back to making himself at home in my kitchen, opening drawers until he locates the silverware. Forks and two pairs of chopsticks join the pile.
What is going on here? And why do I suddenly feel as though I’m in far over my head?
Probably because I am.
He arranges the muffins and—sweet baby Jesus—he also brought Molly’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. Two of them that are almost the size of my head.
My skinny jeans are going to protest.
He pours broth in the takeout containers, makes several trips over to my blanket and pillow pile, and…I just watch him.
It’s when he’s on his last trip—this time with both hands full carrying our wine glasses and the bottle of wine I’d opened earlier—that I finally unstick.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He picks up the remote, turns on the TV, making himself at home by turning on the Eagles’ game.
I stomp over, snatch it from him.
“I don’t like hockey,” I mutter. Unless it involves an owner’s box and free snacks, I think. But I keep that sentiment to myself before I add, “And if you’re invading my relaxing night at home then you’re going to watch what I want to watch and not complain about it.”
I expect him to argue.
Instead, he shrugs. “It’s your night and your condo.” Then he picks up his bowl and chopsticks and gets to work on the ramen.
Which reminds me.
Ramen.
I hit the streaming service, load up my episode, and hit play.
Then get to work onmyramen.
This is so much better than bread and cheese and caramel apple slices—and that half-assed charcuterie board was damned good to begin with. Now, my belly is filled with tender noodles, succulent meat, spicy, hearty sauce…andthenI get to chase it with cheese, bread, wine, apples, muffins,andhalf of the peanut butter chocolate chip cookie.
I want to finish the rest of it.
But my belly is full to bursting.
Still, I look at it longingly as I set it back onto the plate in front of me.
Jace, who’s been watching the show with all the intensity of a man studying a bug beneath a microscope, turns to me and chuckles.
He didn’t make as much progress on his ramen—or his cookie.
But I’m suitably impressed that he both chose so well and that he consumed the goodies with equal abandon. Usually guys like him are all—my body is my temple and shit. And I can’t be with a man who can’t sit in front of the TV and chow down every once in a while.
Andthat’sa dangerous thought to allow to cross my mind.
I’m not going tobewith any man. Not today. Not ever.
And yet you’re cuddled up on the floor next to him, watching your favorite show, so what does that say?
Ugh. The logical side of my brain seriously needs to fuck all the way off.
“What?” I ask grumpily because I despise the mental circles I’ve been going through. Meanwhile, the man is just sitting there without a care in the world. Chuckling.
And staring at me like I’m said bug under said microscope.
