I cringe as I turn to my thrifted knife block. I don’t cook much, so half the knives are missing, and the rest are dull. I can’t remember the last time I used the bread knife. He takes it, slicing through the bread and handing me two slices.
“Am I just your guinea pig now? First the cookies, now the soup.” I dip the bread in the broth, letting it soak in before I take a bite.
Jesus Christ on a cracker, that’s fucking delicous.
Saint chuckles, dipping his bread in his own bowl. “I guess so. Hope you don’t mind.” He gives me a playful wink.
It’s a damn good thing the counter is holding me up, or I’d be in a puddle on the floor.
It’s obvious Saint is attractive. With the beard and the bun and the gentle-giant-lumberjack-Viking-baker vibe he has going on, he’s basically a walking wet dream. Add in the protective nature and a fucking wink?
My panties are incinerated.
And I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. He’s practically a stranger.
A stranger you let into your home.
Well, I never claimed I had a good sense of self-preservation. But Saint doesn’t scare me. I get the impression he’d rather capture a spider and set it loose outside than kill it.
“I don’t mind,” I rush to say, spooning some soup into my mouth. “Holy shit,” I mumble. The carrots are soft but not mushy, the broth rich and savory. The noodles, perfectly tender and full of flavor, are the star of the show. They’re not your standard egg noodles, but I can’t put my finger on what’s different.
“Rubes wanted to try making butternut squash noodles. What do you think? Too much?”
I shake my head adamantly. “Not at all. It’s different but in a good way. It subtly adds to the flavor. It’s perfect for winter.” I take another bite, letting the flavors mingle on my tongue. I’ll definitely be craving this all winter.
“I’ll make sure to pass your praise along. She’ll be happy to know her experiment succeeded.”
We stand at the small counter and finish our soup in silence, the clink of our spoons against the bowls the only sound. It’s not uncomfortable with Saint, and it throws me even more off balance. With every spoonful, the tension seems to ramp up higher. Every once in a while, I’ll look up from my bowl to study Saint, only to find he’s already looking at me with a glimmer inhis eyes. Every time, I expect him to break eye contact first, but it’s always me who looks away, blushing from the intensity of his stare.
When he finished, he washes his bowl and spoon, dries them, and places them back where they belong. Then, he takes mine and does the same. I… don’t know what to do in this situation. It’s a foreign concept to have someone else doing my dishes.
“Thank you for washing those. You didn’t have to,” I finally say, fiddling with the frayed string on my jeans.
“It’s no trouble. Thank you for inviting me up.” He dries his hands on my floral dish towel. It looks tiny in his massive hands. “I should start heading back before the rain makes it even harder to see.” He cuts off his sentence abruptly, like he wants to add more but stops himself.
I don’t want him to leave.
I want to ask him to stay, but I don’t know how, and I don’t want him to have to change his plans. It would be too much to ask him to spend the night—not that we’d both fit on my full-size bed. I can’t ask him to fuck me before sending him packing. That would be rude.
“Look into that door lock, okay? I need you safe, Mikey,” he rasps, amping up my desire for him.
I bite back the plea for him to stay. “I will, promise.”
“Good. I guess… I’ll see you around.” Then, he’s gone, walking out my front door. I stand there, letting his absence wash over me. I shouldn’t miss him already. I shouldn’t want to?—
A knock startles me, and I rush over, cracking it open to find a scowling Saint on the other side, his arms crossed over his broad chest, and displeasure painted all over his face. “You should have locked the door as soon as I walked out.”
“How do you know I didn’t?” I’m surprised at how normal I sound when I’m internally swooning.
“I didn’t hear the lock engage,andyou didn’t have to unlock it to open it. Speaking of, you shouldn’t have opened the door without asking who’s on the other side. What if I was a serial killer?”
“You think a serial killer would knock and announce themself?” I can’t hold back my amused smile.
His scowl deepens, making him look so different.
I give him a half-assed salute. “Yes, sir.”
His jaw tightens further. “I’m not leaving until I hear the lock.”
