“Look at me,” he said quietly.
“No,” she said flatly, dumping something else in the skillet – but he was beyond caring right now. He felt like someone standing on the edge, about to cross a line that couldn’t come back from all because he was trying to help her, trying to be nice, trying to make an impression on the woman he wanted to know better.
“I want you to look at me…”
“You aren’t going to get what you want all the time,” she said in a rushed voice, shoving the contents of the skillet around. “You push and push, but you never ask, you never talk, you never inquire what other people want, but that is going to stop now. It stops today because I’m not doing this anymore.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m not hiding from you,” she snapped, shoving the spatula on the counter and sending a small cherry tomato that had stuck to it flying. Mulligan was on it in a heartbeat, hissing at it and batting it around on the floor, leaving a mess. Her shiny eyes met his as she glared at him, obviously angry and at her limit.
Gone was the laughter, the casualness, the playfulness, and now the wound was visible, open, and there between them.
“I’m going to live my life, enjoy my life, and you need to quit screwing with my sanity because this is not happening,” she railed at him as he stood there quietly. “You can’t call me Sticks. You can’t do things to single me out, and heaven help me – while I love the car, you can’t do things that cross the boundary of friendship and muddy the water between us. We’re nothing, Tate – nothing!”
“Stir,” he said quietly, his eyes holding hers.
“What?” she yelped, her face clouded in confusion.
“It’s going to burn,” he offered gently and plucked up a wooden spoon from the utensil caddy, stirring it blindly as he held her gaze.
“We’re nothing,” she repeated thickly, almost mulishly, as if she needed to say it again to make herself believe that.
“We’renotnothing,” he replied softly, “But we do need to figure some things out between us.”
“There’s nothing to figure out because you were pretty clear about things the last time I ever gave any of this a chance, a possibility.”
“We were kids…”
“Wewerekids,” she corrected bitterly, her eyes shining. “And those foolish kids are now the same stupid adults - but with scars.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he began, realizing what was wrong. “I was leaving, you were so young, and we each had our whole lives ahead of us.”
“Yup,” she snapped emotionally and looked away from him. “And we still do, which is why I’m not doing this.”
He dropped the spoon in the skillet, caught her arm, and turned her to him.
“Don’t touch me,” Nettie hissed at him, trying to jerk her arm free of his hand where he held her.
“I’m gonna touch you,” he hissed back. “Because while you think this isn’t happening. I’ve got news for you. It is, because I let you go once, trying to be noble, to do the right thing… and ended up hurting you. I see that now. I’m not making that stupid mistake twice.”
“Get your hands off of me,” she growled out between clenched teeth, staring him down, and gosh, he craved that fire within her that he knew without a doubt could burn hotter than the sun… and released her.
He held up his hand, took a step back, and looked at the skillet that was crackling because he knew when she’d been pushed far enough. Oh yes, he knew her better than she ever wanted to admit or realize.
“What’s next?” he said simply.
“Between us – nothing,” she muttered, looking away from him.
“In the recipe,” he prompted as a reminder, letting her know he was changing the subject. “What’s next in the recipe?”
“Oh,” she hesitated, looking flustered and turned away to grab a box of dried rotini pasta – and shoved it at his chest. He caught it and almost reached for her again, but he knew he’d already pushed too hard. “Boil it for ten minutes, strain it, dump it in the skillet, and stir.”
She let go of the box, moved away, and scooped up her purse.
“Where are you going?” he said, startled.
“Dinner is done,” she tossed over her shoulder.
