“Friendsis news to me,” she says with a curious glint in her eyes.
“You’re telling me you propositioned a stranger for sex?”
“Acquaintances,” she amends, like it's her final offer, rolling her eyes.
“Sure.” I smile and I see a small crack form in her defensive exterior.
“You’re lucky I am, in fact, ravenous and whatever you're making smells surprisingly good,” she says, gliding over to look down into the pot. I put a hand over my heart in faux offense.
“I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent cook. My mother said so herself.” The laugh that rings out of her gives me enough of a confidence boost to lightly grasp her waist and direct her to the pot of risotto.
“Stir,” I tell her softly. “I need to make the salad.”
I force myself to let her go, moving toward the fridge to pull out some arugula, a lemon, and garlic and begin slicing on the same cutting board I used for the onion and tomato. I can feel Gen nervously glancing at me between stirs and all I want is to know what’s going on in her head. I settle for a less intrusive question.
“Since we’re justacquaintances, tell me about yourself,” I say, continuing my chopping but turning the board so I can see her. She rolls her lips together, piecing together how to respond.
“What do you want to know?” she finally asks. There’s an edge of suspicion to her voice that makes me laugh.
“I’m not trying to steal your social security number, darlin’.” The sass in her head tilt amuses me more than it probably should. “Where’d you grow up? Do you have any siblings?” I realize I know so little about her, even though we’ve spent two years orbiting each other. Astor Hill boasts a few thousand students, but our athletics programs are selective and intense and kind of close knit. I see her all the time, even took Comp II together, but it’s always hard to get close enough to ask her anything. It’s not just the standoffishness—it’s Will. It’s like ‘she’s busy with ballet’, ‘she’s focused’, and ‘she doesn’t have time for you guys’. That’salways the vibe I’ve gotten, but was it even coming from her or was it coming from him?
She sighs, continuing to stir and not meeting my eyes. “I don't have any siblings,” she starts, still staring at the pot.
“Ah—so an only child. That must’ve been a little lonely,” I say, watching her carefully.
“A little,” she says, but doesn’t go into detail. “I lived in New York up until my dad died when I was eleven and then moved to Connecticut when my mom remarried the summer before seventh grade.” Gen still hasn’t met my eyes and I instantly regret that I asked. I always forget that her dad passed. She carries the weight from it so effortlessly.
“Are you close with your mom?” I ask, hoping that this can redirect the conversation.
“Yes, well sort of.” She bites her lip again in contemplation. “She’s very involved in my ballet career.” Her tone leaves no room for questions before she asks, “Grant, is this burning?”
“Shit,” I say, grabbing the pot holders and gently hip bumping her out of the way. I move the pot off the burner and turn the heat off. Sure enough, about half of the risotto is stuck to the bottom. She winces and I can’t help but laugh, her face like a child’s who just broke something valuable.
“Do you like PB&Js?” I ask and her face lights up slightly, the wince dissipating into a smile.
“Do Ilikethem?” She puts her hands confidently on her hips. “I’ve been told bymanythat I make the best PB&J they’ve ever had. Here, let me.” She goes to find the ingredients but heads to the wrong cabinet, and I gently place my hands on her shoulders, redirecting her.
“Thatisinteresting considering people say the same tome,” I tell her, my head dipped just enough for her to hear me as she peruses the cabinet in front of us.
“Are you challenging me?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she looks back at me, unfazed by our proximity and I take note of how easy it’s been to be around her.
“That depends. Does the winner get a prize?” I can’t help the huskiness that comes into my voice, because let’s face it—I’m turned on. I clear my throat, knowing I should be trying to get Gen to slow down, not egging her on. Still, there’s a hint of her blush from earlier creeping back up her neck. Just seeing her so flushed and nervous does something to me. I push the thought away because I’m not sleeping with her. Even if my body is pulsing with want, even if the devil on my shoulder is tapping me, reminding me that entering that stupid bet could be make or break for not just me, but the rest of the team.
“Bragging rights,” I say, backing away from her to grab two plates and knives for the peanut butter and jelly.
When I bring them over to her and the ingredients, I know she’s picked up on the distance. She won’t look at me, so I place a plate in front of her and grab the loaf of bread. Before I can even give her two slices, she snaps her head up at me, her eyes narrowed.
“What are we doing here, Grant?” Arms crossed, her chest rises and falls and her impatience is palpable. “You’re stalling, except I could’ve sworn you were checking out my ass when we walked into the kitchen.”
I hate that she knows that, that my attraction to her is as obvious as someone like Scott’s is, that she felt me look at her like that. And then I hate that I even hate that.Fuck.
I have to glance away, get a second of relief from thehot sear of her attention. I release a breath before looking back at her.
“Have you really even thought this through?” I almost plead, cringing at my tackless persuasion. “What I mean is, you shouldn’t—” Her brow ticks up with annoyance and I pivot, again. “Sleeping with me on a whim because you’re mad at someone?—”
“That’s not what I’m doing.” She looks found out, and neither of us says a thing.
“Look, I just don’t think this is a good idea.”
