My fingers grip the counter until my knuckles are white, and I hang my head for a moment and focus on my breathing.
You’re just cooking, Freya. Just like you do every night.
He’ll love it. You’ve got this.
With a firm nod, I get back to it.
Salmon with a soy and honey glaze, potatoes and greens, with a rainbow side salad, loaded with beans, seeds and dried fruit. It’s nothing complicated, but still, the pressure is on. My stomach is a messy knot of anxiety as I overthink every single step of a recipe I’ve made more times than I can count. It’s one of Mom and Dad’s favorites. It has to be a winner with Cole as well, right?
If he doesn’t like it, he could change his mind and rescind the job offer.
As nervous as I am about embarking on this, I want it. It offers me the focus and challenge I’ve been craving since I returned home. I’ve spent so long wallowing, lost and confused, reliving every second of the last few years of my life, trying topinpoint the moment it all went wrong. This is the perfect way for me to put my mind to something, to forget abouthimand what he’s doing and start my life over.
The apartment’s silence is deafening, but I second-guess putting some music on my cell or attempting to wake Cole’s smart speaker up. Instead, I’m forced to lose myself in my own overthinking as I work.
Thankfully, only fifteen minutes later, footsteps pad closer, and when I turn around, I find Cole retaking his previous position; only this time, his hair is still wet from the shower, and he’s changed into a worn T-shirt and I can only assume—or hope—a pair of sweatpants.
If I didn’t feel overdressed before, I really do now.
I turn my attention back to the food and try to put the image of him sitting there, looking entirely too attractive in his own home, out of my head.
“Whatever you’re doing smells incredible,” he tells me.
“I hope it tastes as good as it smells.”
“I have no doubt,” he says confidently. He allows me to work in silence again, only this time, my body is burning up with his attention. Each of my actions is considered for fear of cutting myself or walking into another cupboard door.
The dull headache has gone now, but I don’t doubt that the spot I hit will be sore to the touch.
I put the salmon into the oven with the potatoes and finally turn around to look at him.
Nerves zip through me as our eyes meet.
He’s so…and I’m…
God. This is only day one. What is he doing to me?
“I guess we should figure out how this is going to work then, huh?”
I rest back against the counter, my fingers curled around it once again.
“Yeah, I guess we should,” I agree, aware that I’ve dived into this a little blindly.
“When I’m home, I’ll be looking for two meals a day—generally breakfast and dinner, plus snacks and shakes for throughout the day, seeing as I usually eat lunch at the arena. Game days are different. Despite what I said earlier, I am happy to warm food up. I don’t expect you to be here first thing every morning and for dinner each night.”
“It’s fine. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
He shakes his head. “I have no intention of taking over your life, Freya. I may not be able to cook, but I have managed to survive this long just fine.”
“Your next game is Friday, right?”
A proud smile twitches at his lips. “That’s right.”
“Okay, so breakfast and dinner for the next three days. Then can you talk me through your game day schedule? Do you have any rituals I need to know about?”
He smirks.“You have been doing your research.”
“My dad is a huge Vipers’ fan. I’ve picked things up over the years.”
