My key turns in the lock with a click, and I enter the foyer to Pearson House. Loud music blares throughout the house. It’s homey and comforting and somewhat familiar, but I don’t focus on it at first as I set down my bag and step out of my black suede heels.
The most delicious smell reaches my nose, and I pause for a moment, just breathing it in. For the first time entering Pearson House since my father died, I feel at home. After a moment or so, it dawns on me what song I’m hearing: Radiohead’s “Creep.”
How fitting, I think.
“Zayn?” I call out.
“Kitchen,” comes his deep voice in reply.
I round the corner and find him standing in my kitchen wearing a crisp, cream-colored apron that I have never seen before, the sleeves of his blue button-down shirt are rolled up, exposing his forearms and the many black fine lines of his tattoos. He grins at me, with a look in his eyes that momentarily halts my breath. Something delicious-smelling simmers on the stove behind him in one of the large, fancy ceramic pots that I never use.
Jesus Fucking Christ. The perfect man does exist.And he’s standing right here in my kitchen with Bundy lovingly twisting himself in between his legs.
“You cook too?” I ask, utterly incredulous at the sight of him.
He ignores my question and holds out a glass of chilled white wine. His large hand is wrapped around the delicate stem of the glass, and I feel a thrill run down my spine and settle low in my belly. I had been thinking about those hands of his and what they were capable of entirely too often over the past several days.
“Sit, baby. You must be hungry,” is Zayn’s only response.
I move to take a seat at the dining table and watch as he ladles out some of the contents of the pot into a shallow bowl and serves me.
“So, do I even need to give you a key at this point? Or have you just sort of unofficially moved in?”
Zayn chuckles under his breath and says, “I’ll leave whenever you ask me to, baby. But not before.”
I think about his response. At this moment, it is very difficult to imagineeverasking him to leave.Impossible, even.
I smile as I inhale the tantalizing smell of the food and seize my fork. I slide a mouthful of delicious roast chicken, tender mushrooms, and egg noodles into my mouth. The pasta is cooked perfectly al dente, and the creamy, salty sauce is decadent and silky on my tongue.
“Oh my god,” I say thickly around the mouthful. “What is this?”
“Chicken Fricassee,” he answers, “an old Bronwin family favorite.”
I nod. I was so curious about his family. He hasn’t spoken about them very much yet.
“The carrots were harvested fresh from my mother’s garden just this morning,” Zayn continues, “and the potatoes as well.”
I hold up a piece of carrot on my fork and give Zayn a radiant smile, absolutely moaning into my next bite. The meal is so flavorful, warm, and comforting.
It’s exactly what I need after a long day. I shift slightly in my seat, unsettled by the quiet question rising in my brain:Do I even deserve something this good?
I take another bite, then pause as a realization hits me with startling force—I can't remember the last time someone cooked for me. Not in over a decade. Probably my dad. He used to make breakfast for Rae and me on the weekends on slow Saturday mornings.
The memory stirs something deep. My eyes begin to prick and burn, an ache rising at the back of my throat. I didn’t expect this. But it’s here all the same.
“Thank you,” I say, swallowing the emotion building in my throat. I try to infuse a lot of tenderness and gratitude into my voice.
“You’re welcome, baby.” Zayn nods.
He watches me eat and gently inclines his head to the side as if he knows there is something on my mind. I meet his eyes and open my mouth, then close it again. Zayn just waits patiently, allowing me the time and space to say more, if I want to.
“Something on your mind, baby?” he inquires gently.
“I-I found something out the other night,” I begin. Zayn meets my eyes.
“It’s sort of why I was in the city in the first place. And why I went to the bar afterward and then tried to walk to Bea’s place.”
“Okay,” Zayn states patiently.
