“You’re welcome.”
“It smells delicious.”
He’s referring to the food and I wish he was talking about me. God. I want to touch him so much. Heck. I want to lick him. There are a few droplets of water still clinging to his chest.
Lucky droplets.
“Pasta?” He’s smirking again.
“Pasta?” I snap out of my fog. “Right.” I laugh. “You’re distracting me.” I point to the couch. “Sit.”
He turns and walks away, and my gaze moves down to his ass. The jeans have slipped down a little to reveal the top part of his round bottom. The urge to bite is strong, but instead I turn to finish the poor man’s meal.
Since I used sauce in a jar, dinner doesn’t take long to make. “Okay. Don’t get too excited.” I’ve got a huge bowl filled with macaroni noodles covered in the meat sauce I threw together. I made him toast out of my last hot dog bun. “I had to get creative.”
“It smells great.” He reaches for the bowl and digs in. He nods as he chews. After he swallows, he smiles. “This is great, honey. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” And for a split second, I imagined what it’d be like to live with this man. What it’d be like if he came home to me every night. Would I turn into this 1950s version of myself? It’s not that I’m ashamed I immediately jumped up to cook him something, because I’m a nurturing sort of person—always have been. In my parents’ relationship, it’s my dad who does this sort of thing. My mom was always busy with her activities outside of the home and the hardware store, so my dad “held down the fort,” as he called it.
I look at Sam as he takes big bites of my food. When he looks up at me, he smiles, then he pats the seat next to him. Without a word, I move close and sit. Then, I jump up. “You need something to drink?”
“Sit,” he says between bites. “You don’t need to wait on me. I’ll grab something if I need it.”
And there you go. He’s right. I don’t need to serve him, but part of me really liked it, and that scares me a little.
He finishes the food in minutes. I’m about to take the dish from him when he stands and makes his way to my kitchen. When I hear water running and dishes clattering, I make my way over to him.
He’s doing the dishes. “Sam…”
“You cooked. I clean.” He looks over at me. “It’s the rule.”
“Fair enough.”
So, I watch him. Sam Griffin in my kitchen washing dishes in only a pair of jeans. A pair of jeans that have slid even further down on his hips. And the more they slide down, the more they reveal lovely things, like his Adonis belt and that stripe of hair that leads from his navel down to … well, you know. He’s also got those two little dimples on his back right above his butt. I love those things.
“You need an updated kitchen.”
I’m staring at his ass when he adds, “Brian needs to update this kitchen. You don’t even have a dishwasher.”
“It’s just me.” I shrug. “I’d never run a dishwasher.”
“More energy efficient than washing dishes.”
“Really?”
Sam looks over at me and winks. “It is.”
“Well, then… I need a dishwasher.”
“I’ll tell him.” Hedoeswork with my landlord. Plus, he lives next door. “I made him update my kitchen before I moved in.”
“You did?” I guess I do remember them doing work over there. And I’d seen my neighbor’s place once or twice. I just don’t remember paying much attention, since she was a bitch on wheels. She was divorced with two kids.
I was glad when they moved.
“The previous tenant…” He pauses.
“What?”
