I cover a surge of surprise that we’ll be cooking dinner instead of ordering in. My friends, the guys I’ve dated—however briefly—pick up the phone instead of opening the fridge as a rule.
“I’m not picky,” I say. “Unless you’re one of those clean eating, food-is-fuel people.”
“I’m a real food, real fast, minimal cleanup kind of person.”
“I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”
Nash snorts, pointing to a stool tucked up near the counter. “Sit. That ankle has to be throbbing.”
I do as he says, watching as he moves with confidence around the kitchen. He hands me ingredients; opens cabinets I’d never guess held what I needed. From my stool at the counter, I chop tomatoes, onions, and basil for the sauce while he boils water and grates parmesan. Our conversation is easy, and the lulls are filled with music from his Re-education of Lucy Calder playlist.
He opens a bottle of red and sets out two glasses without asking.
“You’re off the pain meds, right?”
“Days ago. Hate the way they make me feel.”
We eat on barstools at the counter. The pasta is good… simple, fresh, comforting, like everything else about this night.
“So, I have to admit, the music is good,” I say, poking my fork around my plate for a bite.
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I mean… I had my doubts.”
Nash snorts. “Don’t worry. You’ll figure out soon enough that it’s better if you trust me more and fight me less.”
“Oh! So that’s how it is?” I quirk a playful eyebrow. “Doctor Kincaid’s word is law, huh?”
He grimaces, shaking his head. “Be careful putting words in my mouth. That is not at all what I said.”
“Enlighten me then, because that’s what I heard.”
“I’m just saying I have good taste in music,” he sayswith a laugh, before all humor slides from his face, leaving something real and raw and honest in its wake. “And I will fight hard for people to get what they need.”
“And what do I need?” I ask, partly curious how he sees me, partly daring him to list all the ways I’m living incorrectly. To start in on me the way Dad always has.
Nash puts down his fork and regards me carefully. His eyes meet mine and there’s something gentle there, something that doesn’t feel at all like accusation.
“You need someone in your corner,” he says, simply and the truth of it leaves me breathless.
I stare for a few quiet moments, unsure what to make of the man beside me, then laugh lightly, trying to shift the conversation toward safer shores. “Wow. Switching from kindness bomb to truth bombs.”
He bobs his head, swirling his fork through his pasta. “People usually tell me I’m gruff and boring. I’ll take kind and honest any day.”
We finish our dinner and retreat to easier topics. His days at the ER. My life as a dancer.
Anything to pretend the tension simmering between us doesn’t exist.
But it does.
It’s in every glance. Every too-long moment of quiet.
And somewhere between his story about a misdiagnosed foreign object in a guy’s ear and my impression of a dance teacher who once threatened to glue our feet to the floor if we didn’t “stop thinking the music and start feeling the music,” the hours slip by.
We talk and laugh and sip and tease until the winebottle is empty and the kitchen is clean. There’s a million tiny moments, the brush of his fingers against my lower back. My hand on his arm as I throw my head back in laughter. Eye contact, thick and heavy, his gaze lingering on my lips when he thinks I’m not looking, and suddenly the clock on the microwave reads quarter past midnight.
“How is it so late?” I ask, stunned.
