“May I take your coat?” I ask.
Why the fuck do I sound like a butler?
“Uh, sure.” As she’s taking it off, her arm gets stuck, and she wrestles with it for a minute before finally yanking it off.
At least I’m not the only one being awkward.
I take her coat and hang it on the rack by the door. Shoving her hands in her jean pockets, she walks around my living room. She moves slowly as if she’s taking in everything.
“It’s nothing fancy,” I say.
Her head snaps over to me. “No, Beau. It’s perfect. It’s so homey.”
I shrug and grin. “I don’t go out much, so I wanted my house to be somewhere I actually wanted to be.”
“Look at you.” She gives me a warm smile. “All grown up with your own house. Meanwhile, I’m crashing in my brother’s spare bedroom.”
“It’s not a competition, Jo.”
She looks away. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Still feeling like I have no idea what I want to say, I ask, “Hungry?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Great. Ziti is almost done.”
“You cooked?”
“Yes, I cook a lot actually.”
“No shit? I remember when you used to burn leftover pizza.”
I laugh. “To be fair, that one wasn’t my fault. You distracted me from watching the toaster oven.”
She starts giggling too. “My mom just about killed us for almost burning down the house. I can’t believe you learned how to cook.”
“I guess a lot of things have changed.”
Her smile falls a little. “I guess so.”
She reaches her hands above her head to stretch. When she does, her shirt rides up just a little, showing off her ink. Immediately, my mind flashes back to last night when she was wearing absolutely nothing. Knowing what she looks like underneath her clothes, I’m not sure I can ever look at her the same way again.
She turns around, catching a glimpse of me checking her out. She doesn’t say anything but instead just gives a slight grin.
I do my best to clear the dirty thoughts from my mind. It doesn’t exactly work, but I’m going to pretend it did.
“I need to check dinner. Want to join me?” I ask.
“Lead the way.” When we walk into the kitchen, she adds, “It smells great.”
“Thanks. I think Italian is my favorite thing to cook.”
“Mine too. I make some wicked good pizza rolls,” she jokes.
I smile. “I don’t know if that counts.”
“Oh, trust me. At two AM, when you’re trying to soak up the alcohol, pizza rolls are the most exquisite food you’ll ever eat.”
