“I just told you how I feel about driving.”
For the rest of the ride, I don’t look at the streets. I look at him, the man who gave me a piece of himself to heal something I thought could never be repaired, and something happens that has my heart rate picking up speed for entirely new reasons.
For the first time in years, I genuinely smile while sitting in a car.
Because of him.
THIRTY-EIGHT
A little while later we go into the store without much fuss, quickly gathering what we need. Koen tosses in fresh tomatoes, basil, a box of pasta, cheese, and even grabs my precious Twinkies without a word, only a small smirk when he catches me eyeing the box like a starved woman.
Back in the car, he hands me one as we drive in silence, the low hum of country music filling the space. My heart still races as we go, and nerves begin to spark with the first acceleration through a busy intersection, but then I focus on the music, chewing, the simple steadiness of Koen’s hand resting casually on my knee, and they dissipate.
Before I know it, we’re pulling up to my place.
Once we’re inside, I’m hit with a mild wave of embarrassment. My kitchen is a mess—wrappers, takeout containers, and receipts from who knows when cluttering the counters. I dive right into clearing it up, swiping things off the counter and into the trash, hyperaware of Koen’s eyes on me, that amused chuckle escaping his lips.
“Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks warming as I bend to swipe an empty ramen cup from the floor and drop it into the trash.
He shakes his head as he takes off his leather jacket and hangs it over a chair, then rolls up his sleeves. “No worries. But move over. Let me handle this.”
A little dumbstruck, I watch as he efficiently clears the rest of the space and wipes it all down before he washes his hands and starts to chop tomatoes and basil with practiced ease. He moves around my cramped kitchen as if he belongs there, throwing together ingredients with a casual confidence that’s almost mesmerizing.
I lean against the counter, unable to look away as he stirs the simmering sauce. “Why are you so good at this?” I ask, genuinely curious, trying to place this unexpected side of him, measuring it against how I’ve perceived him until now.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, intent on his work. “I like to cook.”
I grin. “I like to eat.”
That earns me a smirk over his shoulder. “Then I’d love to cook for you more often.”
The easy warmth of his words leaves me a little off-balance. Before I can say anything, he asks, “You have a cat?”
He’s curiously eyeing the little food bowl tucked by the wall, the one Good Lookin’ usually sniffs around when she’s here. “Sort of. She’s a stray who comes by sometimes, but I haven’t seen her in a while,” I answer lightly, but there’s an edge of worry as I add, “I hope nothing’s happened.”
Koen nods thoughtfully as he plates steaming pasta into two bowls. “Alaric’s got a stray too. Oscar found her outside the Lane Building and named her Jinx.”
I take one of the plates from him while his eyes dart around as if searching for a place to sit, and I follow his gaze to the couch, which, unfortunately, is piled high with laundry. My cheeks burn again.
Great, Nova,I’m sure the guy wants to eat next to your dirty panties.
“Um… would you be okay eating on my bed?”
He just smiles, unbothered. “Lead the way.”
In my bedroom, we settle on the bed, our knees brushing as we dig into the pasta. The flavors hit my tongue. It’s rich and cheesy with the right hint of basil, and I let out a completely involuntary moan. “God, this is amazing,” I say, savoring every bite. “You weren’t kidding about being a good cook.” I glance over at him and catch the faintest blush on his cheeks. He’s watching me with a look I can’t quite name, soft and a little amused, like he’s genuinely pleased to see me enjoying something he made.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
As we finish eating, Koen reaches over, taking my empty plate as he eases off the bed and returns them to the kitchen. My full stomach makes room for butterflies to swarm as I watch him maneuver through my space as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
What is wrong with me?
To distract myself from the too-domestic sight, I start to braid my hair, and my fingers become clumsy and frustrated. I miss Annabelle. It’s never quite right when I do it myself.
When Koen returns, he’s leaning in the doorway, cocking an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What the hell are you doing?”
