She takes another piece, chewing it slower this time. I have better things to do yet I’m standing here watching her eat chocolate. I can’t help it, though. The way her lips close around it. They’re full and look so soft. She makes a small sound, almost like a moan. My eyes trace to the black beauty mark at the edge of her upper lip. It’s barely visible unless a person’s looking.
I'm looking.
She opens her eyes and catches me.
I turn away, reaching for a can, quickly shoving it into the cabinet. It’s normal to look. This is what happens when you’re around a girl for too long. It doesn’t mean anything.
"Do you want one?"
I look over my shoulder to see her holding the box out toward me, offering to share. There’s chocolate smudged on her fingertips.
"No. I don't eat that."
"You don't like chocolate?"
"I don't eat sweets."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
She shrugs and pops another piece in her mouth. "More for me." She eats one more, glances at me, then puts the box away. She washes her hands and comes back over, reaching for a bottle of sauce. “I can help with that.”
“I’ve got it.” I’m too aware of her. I don’t need her coming closer to me.
“I want to help,” she says. “I’m feeling better now.” She lifts her foot. “See? Even the cut’s healed.”
“Fine.” I move over, making sure we don’t touch. “You put that stuff away. I’ll make us something to eat.”
She nods, unpacking the rest of groceries in silence. Afew minutes later, she drifts closer to the stove, asking, “Is cooking hard?"
I glance at her. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I don’t know how. I never learned.” She presses her lips together, gaze lowering. "I don't know how to do anything except read people."
"It’s not hard,” I answer. “I mean it can be. That’s why I only cook the easy stuff. If you look at the back of the box it tells you how to do it."
I fill a pot with water, setting it on the stove. “Be glad I call myself a businessman and not a chef.”
She smiles, then laughs, covering her mouth as if the laugh caught her by surprise. I freeze at the sound, the way her face changes when she laughs. She looks even younger, prettier than she already is. Her brown eyes crinkle at the corners, drawing my attention lower to the two tiny dots at the top of her cheeks I never noticed before.
I don’t know why I said that to her. I don’t joke with anyone, yet here I am watching her laugh at my stupid joke and I like it.
"The soup you made for me was really good,” she says, resting her cheek in her hand, still watching me. “So maybe youcouldcall yourself that.”
"That would be too easy. It’s hard to mess up soup."
She shoots me a look of skepticism. "I probably could."
I smile before realizing it. "Probably."
She smiles back, wider this time.
I turn my attention to the stove, focusing on cooking, not the feel of her eyes on me. Her presence is too comfortable, feels too natural. That’s not what this is. I better remember that.
She sighs, looking sad. "Roman, I think what I’m worried about is messing things up. The ingredients and measurements. I’m not good at math, so that doesn’t help. I used towatch cooking shows with my mom. Before I…” Her voice trails off.
She bites her lip. “It looked complicated. I never learned because I thought I had time.”
