"Before she got sick, she used to make me watch her in the kitchen. Then, with the cancer…" he trailed off sadly. "Anyway. I got used to cooking for her."
I could imagine a smaller, younger Nathan standing on a stool to reach the counter, lips pursed and brows drawn down as he concentrated hard on chopping vegetables, stirring pots, and checking the oven. I wondered how young he would have been when he first started taking care of her. There hadn't been anyone else around to help. It had just been him.
My heart ached for Nathan, the beginnings of tears pricking the back of my eyes. I blinked them away before he could see and turned a sunny smile on him.
"Maybe you could teach me?" I asked.
"I don't know how good of a teacher I'd be," he said, "but we could give it a go. Maybe let's stick to toast and peanut butter for now, though?"
"Got any jam, instead?" I asked hopefully. "I got sick of eating peanut butter after forcing it down for so long to fatten myself up."
He kissed the top of my head. "I've got three different kinds."
After making the toast and spreading our respective condiments, we sat at the island counter, munching away. We didn't talk much, just exchanged besotted looks and played footsies. We were being so cute it was almost sickening, and I enjoyed every minute of it.
"What are your plans for the day?" Nathan asked.
"I've got a volunteer shift later this afternoon, but my morning is free."
"I've got to go into the studio after lunch, but I'm free until then if you want to hang."
"And byhang, do you mean more sexy times?"
He lips curved into a wicked smile as his toe slid its way up from my foot and up my leg.
"Oh shit," I cursed as a sudden thought occurred to me. "I need to make sure my parents aren't looking for me. They probably think I'm still asleep, but if they knocked on the apartment door and I didn't answer, they might freak."
A worried look crossed Nathan's face. I hurried to the living room where I'd dropped my purse at the front door and pulled out my phone. I breathed a sigh of relief.
"No messages," I said. "If they were really worried, they would have tried calling or texting."
His worried look didn't fade.
"I hate the idea that we're sneaking around," he said.
I went over to where he was perched on the bar stool. This time it was my turn to press a kiss to his head.
"I'll tell them today," I promised.
He nodded, the line in his forehead smoothing. He quirked an eyebrow. "So. Sexy times?"
"Actually…" I wondered whether to ask, but decided there wasn't any harm. He could always say no. "I was wondering if you could show me your music room? I wasn't snooping," I hurried to say. "The door was open and I saw guitars and music sheets. Is that where you write your songs?"
He lowered his eyes, looking embarrassed. "Yeah. That's where I write my solo stuff. I don't want to be doing it in the recording studio yet. I'm not ready to show everyone."
"Will you show me?"
He hesitated. "You really want to hear my shit?"
"I'd love to hear your, as you call it,shit." I gave him a smile. "Although I'm positive it won't be."
He hopped from the stool. "You have such faith in me."
"How about this," I said. "I'll be totally honest with you. If it sucks, I'll say so. If I say it's amazing, you have to believe me. Deal?"
He looked nonplussed, but nodded. "Deal."
I followed him to the music room. He sat me on the sofa, grabbed an acoustic guitar, the same one I'd plucked at, and took a seat next to me.
