“So we can talk.” He brushed past me, not waiting for an answer, and sat at my kitchen counter.
Slamming the back door shut, I said snidely, “How’s that cheap stool treating you?”
“Stop. I didn’t mean what you think.”
“Well, what did you mean when you said I could have had better with you?” I twisted my hair back into a messy knot and raised an eyebrow. “To me, it seemed a lot like you let me go.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“No, you did. You chose the company.”
He looked tired, his eyes dull and deep wrinkles at the corners. “It was all I ever worked for. You know that,” he said, sounding defeated.
Guilt dripped from my heart into my veins. It shouldn’t have, but it did.
I walked to the cabinet and pulled down my old coffeepot. It wasn’t a good time for the one-cup thing. I poured in the grinds and water and set it to percolate while Aston sat quietly at the counter, his head in his hands.
“Did you eat?” I asked, my tone softer now, and he shook his head.
This time, I walked to the fridge and pulled out the eggs and a handful of veggies. I set an omelet pan on the stove top, drizzled in some olive oil, and turned on the burner.
I needed to be busy, to make work for my idle hands. In reality, they yearned to smooth their way down Aston’s back. My mouth ached to place kisses along his neck and across his cheek, all the way to his mouth.
Instead, I sliced an onion, diced a pepper, and halved a few cherry tomatoes.
“You don’t have to cook for me,” he said, his voice scratchy, gruff, and oozing sex.
I scurried back to the fridge and grabbed some spinach. I needed to do something, and that something wasnotkissing him.
“Omelet okay? You still like it without cheese and your eggs mixed with milk?” I kept my gaze glued to the stove and my back to the man in my kitchen.
“Bexley, look at me.”
Ignoring him, I tossed the veggies in the frying pan and gave them a stir with the same concentration as if I were solving the national debt.
“Bex, turn around. Now.”
Reluctantly, I did.
“What’re you doing?” He wasn’t on the stool but walking toward me. “Huh?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“You need to calm down.” He pushed a stray hair out of my face and ran his knuckles down my cheek. “I should be asking you if you ate.”
I shook my head because I hadn’t eaten, but he didn’t need to ask me that. That wasn’t his job anymore. Or ever, really.
“Come on.” He guided me toward the stove and stood behind me as he picked up the spatula and brought it to my hand. Together, we stirred the vegetables, his large hand cupping mine. His lips tickled my ear as he whispered from behind me, “I want to take care of you.”
I felt elated and saddened, all at the same time. How could I be so excited over him wanting to care for me ... after he left me all those years ago? Chose his dad over me?
“Let’s get the eggs.”
He set the spatula down and guided me toward the sink where I’d left the eggs. He repeated the whole hand-in-hand cooking business, cracking eggs and dumping them in a bowl, adding milk, and whisking it all together.
Back to the stove we went.
He nudged the burner down a bit, stirred the vegetables one last time, and poured the eggs over top. Then he turned me, setting my butt on the counter next to the stove.
