I tilt my head. “If it sucks, we’ll order pizza. No big deal. You said you want to cook, so what’s the—”
“I have dyslexia.”
Something tugs strongly in my chest at the idea that Zach and I each have a secret condition that could change someone’s entire perception of us. He carries the same burden as me.
He’s braver than me though. Zach’s willing to share information that could change my opinion of him. I’d swallow my tongue before telling him my brain requires stabilizing medication. I could never take the gamble, risk changing the way he looks at me with a mixture of adoration and awe.
“I don’t know much about dyslexia,” I reply, leaning back against the counter across from him. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“My brain doesn’t process visual information like yours does. It takes longer for me to read because I have to take my time. I have strategies…” He shrugs. “They help, but mostly I feel frustrated and stupid.”
I want to close the distance between us, but I don’t want him to think I’m pitying him.
“You’re not,” I whisper.
When Zach doesn’t say anything, I ask, “Do you want to have the recipe read out loud?”
His eyebrows lift. “You still want to cook?”
What fucking asshole shamed him into thinking someone would walk away after he told them about his dyslexia? I want to maim them.
“We need dinner, don’t we?” I cross my right foot over my left, attempting casual despite my internal freakout at the possibility of screwing up this friendship by saying the wrong thing. “And it’s on the list, Zach.”
He shakes his head. “We don’t have to do the lists, Finley.”
I offer a little of myself to him. A small part, the only bit I can. “Veronica told me today I’m more fun when you’re around.”
His grin damn near blinds me. “You talked about me with Veronica?”
I roll my eyes. “She brought you up, Zachary.”
He pushes off the counter. “Right.”
I hold my phone out to him, a chicken parm recipe open on the screen, I want him to know his confession doesn’t faze me. I’d never judge him for it.
“You don’t want to read it for us?” he asks.
“Is that what you'd prefer?” I want him to make this decision.
He shakes his head, brown hair flopping onto his forehead. “No, I’d prefer you save your voice for reading those sexy romance novels you like so much.”
The knife slips off an onion straight into my finger. It stings, but there’s no blood. “You want me to keep reading them to you?”
“I want to know what happens with the fake dating.”
I glance sidelong at him. “You do not. You’re just waiting to get to the smut.”
“I won’t lie.” He skims his fingertips along my forearm as he walks past. My stomach tumbles. “I’m looking forward to hearing you read those scenes.”
“You’ll have to earn it, Briggs,” I deflect, anything to hide my desire to do more thanreadthose scenes with him.
“I’m not afraid of hard work, Finley,” he says in a low rumble I’m not used to hearing from him, but dammit, I like it.
I likehimmore than I should. It’s all I can think about as we cook together. Each time his body bumps mine. Every time he smiles at me. The joy on his face when he sees the finished meal. That light of his illuminates my life in a way that would’ve annoyed me once.
Now I ache for him to keep shining it my way.
11
