“And you love it. Now, eat.”
“Thank you,” I say, stepping back and running a hand through my hair. “Seriously. No one's cooked for me since...”
I trail off, not wanting to bring up my mom right now. Not when Hennessy's looking at me with those big eyes, all proud of herself for doing something so simple yet so fucking meaningful. We’ve spent the last few weeks eating out, or she’s come over after being at her parents. This is unexpected, but it really shouldn’t have been.
“I'm starving,” I admit, moving to the stove as she slides the cookie sheet into the oven. The smell hits me as soon as I lift the lid on the pan—seasoned rice, chicken, peppers, and spices that make my mouth water instantly. “Fuck, this looks good.”
I grab a plate from the cabinet and pile it high, not bothering to wait as I take the first bite. The flavors explode on my tongue—slightly spicy, perfectly seasoned.
“Holy shit,” I mumble around a mouthful, already shoveling in another bite.
Hennessy beams at me, setting the timer for the cookies before turning to the sink. She starts gathering the mixing bowls and measuring cups, running water over them.
“Leave that,” I say, swallowing my food. “I'll clean up after I eat.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “I made the mess.”
“Hennessy.” My voice drops in a tone I know she instantly recognizes—the one that says I'm not fucking around. “I said leave it. You cooked, I’ll clean. That's how this works.”
She turns, eyebrow raised. “Since when do we have rules about kitchen duty?”
“Since you made me dinner after working all day. I'm not having you clean up too.”
She looks like she's about to argue, a stubborn set to her jaw appearing. But something in my expression must convince her because she sighs dramatically.
“Fine,” she says, shutting off the water. “But only because you look like you might spank me if I don't obey.”
My cock rises at her words. “Don't tempt me, trouble. Might do it regardless.”
She grins, sauntering past me to hop up on the counter beside where I'm eating. Her bare legs dangle, and my jersey rides up just enough to give me a glimpse of what's underneath.
“So how was your day?” she asks, stealing a piece of chicken from my plate.
I swat at her hand half-heartedly. “Get your own.”
“Yours tastes better,” she says with a wink. “Now answer the question, Coach.”
“Fine. Practice ran long. The defensive line is struggling with the new formation.” I take another bite, closing my eyes at how fucking good it tastes. “What about you? How was your 'girls' night'?”
“It was good. Naila's got drama with her new man. Apparently he's not as attentive as she'd like,” Hennessy says, swinging her legs. “She thinks he's seeing someone else.”
I grunt, more focused on the food than her friend's relationship problems. “Is he?”
“No idea. But I told her to just ask him instead of obsessing over his social media likes.” She steals another piece of chicken. “Plus, I missed you. It’s weird how quickly I got used to seeing you almost every day.”
I'm not used to this. Someone wanting to be around me, missing me when I'm gone. It's fucking terrifying and addictive all at once.
“Yeah?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the way my heart pounds. “You missed my charming personality or just my dick?”
She rolls her eyes, nudging me with her foot. “Both, asshole. Though right now I'm leaning more toward the personality since you're being so appreciative of my cooking skills.”
I grab her ankle, holding it firmly. “Your cooking skills are fucking incredible. Almost as good as your other skills.”
The timer on the oven starts beeping, interrupting whatever smart-ass comment she was about to make. She hops down from the counter, her bare feet silent on the tile floor as she grabs an oven mitt.
I watch her bend over to pull out the cookie sheet, the hem riding up to give me a perfect view of her ass. My fork pauses halfway to my mouth as I take in the sight, heat pooling in my groin.
“Eyes up here, Coach,” she teases, straightening with the tray of perfect golden-brown cookies. She sets them on a cooling rack next to the others.
