He cared, even if just a little bit, for a stranger.
“What are you doing?” I found myself asking as I moved to the stools on the other side of the island.
I was useless in the kitchen, and I didn’t want to invade what was now his space. But I felt drawn in. I wanted to see what he was doing, wanted to know what he thought of my kitchen. What he thought of me.
Maybe I was a glutton for punishment.
“Hm?” Knox turned from where he was at the stove, spatula in hand.
He studied me, perched and fidgeting on the stool, and tilted his head.
“I’m cooking.”
I pouted. “But why?”
Knox’s eyes shuttered again, putting up that silent wall between us.
“It’s my job, isn’t it?”
I flinched at the steel there.
So that was what had upset him?
“I’m sorry,” I picked at the edge of my nails, “I was trying to–I mean, I thought you’d prefer if I–” I winced, knowing I sounded like a stuttering idiot.
I cleared my throat and straightened my shoulders, forcing my hands to still. Be clear and concise. Represent the family. “I didn’t mean to offend you. You were helping me when you didn’t have to, and I appreciate that, but I worded it wrong.”
Silence.
I glanced up to find him looking at me with that expression again, the one where it looked like he didn’t know what to say to me, like I was the source of his confusion.
I couldn’t be surprised. I’d probably been a bag full of confusion and mixed signals from the moment he knocked on my door. My mind was in tatters, and I couldn’t even pull myself together enough to handle movers or properly thank Knox for helping me carry my art supplies from room to room.
A soft thump was all that announced Jackson’s intrusion. The chair beside mine spun, and I knew he was curling up on the cushion.
Knox still hadn’t said anything.
I couldn’t hold his gaze anymore. Instead, I glanced back at my hands, still forcibly frozen on the countertop so I wouldn’t fidget or pick at my fingers again.
If he didn’t want to talk to me, that was fine. He was here for a job, so it wasn’t his job to entertain me. He worked for my dad. I was just here.
A plate was placed in front of me with a soft clatter.
A crisp and gooey grilled cheese.
I blinked, and a mug of what must be tomato soup joined the plate.
A mug? I had bowls in the cupboard, didn’t I? You weren’t supposed to serve soup to guests in anything else.
My gaze flicked up, where he still stood in front of me—well, where he leaned against the island. He was still looking at me, still curious.
And still handsome.
“Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” he informed me as if I didn’t know. “Maybe not up to your standards, but–”
“No,” I interrupted, shaking my head emphatically. “I like grilled cheese.”
It was one of my favorites, but he didn’t need to know that.
