I don’t know what to say. That’s…so nice of him. I shake my head. “No, you do too much for me as is.”
“I wish I could do more.” He looks down at Paislee who’s now successfully nodding off. “Somuch more,” he says quietly.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
He looks back at me, an expression passing over him that I’ve only seen a few times on him. Like he’s fighting the urge for something. To say or do something, I’m not sure.
“Anything.”
This answer shocks me. Brad isn’t normally so outright with how he’s feeling. Whatever I want from him?
Easy.
I want him to be with me instead of my mom. Would he give methat?
I open my mouth, praying the question would find the courage to slip out past my lips, but as soon as I do, he interrupts me.
“Paislee’s asleep,” he whispers.
I look down at her, eyes closed and breathing softly.
“Yeah.” I exhale. The question I had escaping the moment. Maybe it’s for the best.
“You hungry?” Brad’s eyebrows raise.
I follow him out of the baby room, heart still caught on the things I almost said. Maybe food will be safer territory.
***
Watching Brad move around the kitchen is a sight to behold.
He looks so at peace and in the zone.
Reaching over his shoulder, I snag a fry from his cooking pan as they’re cooling down. Tonight, he’s blessing me with Steak Frites and I couldn’t be more excited about it.
“Ah, hot!” I open my mouth, trying to suck in and blow the hot air out.
Helaughs at me, shaking his head.
“That’s what you get for being bad.” He snaps his tongs in my direction. “Go sit down and be patient.”
I pout. “But, it looks so good. I want to watch.” I look over his shoulder as he gets to work, searing the steaks on the cast iron pan. The smell of the fresh thyme and sliced shallots fill my nose.
“Mmm, you always cook like this?” I run my hand down his back, feeling my way down his tight muscles.
Brad shakes his head. “Not as much as I’d like to.”
“You can always cook for me.Wheneveryou want to.” I hum, pulling his waistband toward me.
Brad’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Noted.”
Handing me a spoon, he ushers me to the pan beside him. “Here, why don’t you stir this?”
I laugh, taking my job very seriously, stirring the peppercorn sauce slowly.
Before long, dinner is done, prepped and placed beautifully before us on the dining table.
I look at my gorgeous cut, steaming, covered in delicious smelling sauce and a side salad.
