He doesn’t let me, his body bending into mine. “Nothing to be sorry about.”
“But you’ll burn your dinner.”
He curses under his breath and lets go of me, grabbing for his whisk and stirring the mix in the pan. “Ruined.”
“Are you sure?”
“Give it a second, and it’ll hit your nose.” He takes the pan over to the trash and scrapes everything into the garbage can, then rinses off his whisk and starts over, melting butter and tossing in green onion and freshly pressed garlic. I lean against the counter beside the stove, arms folded over my chest. Whenhe reaches the point where he pours milk into the thickener, he glances up at me. “You’re a distraction.”
I want to tease him, but behind that glint of dark want in his eye is a measure of earnestness. Hemeansthis. Dorian loses himself in the moment, in what he’s doing, inme. He’s told me it was the reason he couldn’t sit by me in classes, and while that felt like a reason, it didn’t properly register until now, with the acrid smell of burned garlic tainting the air.
“What were you doing Monday night?” I ask.
“I came to book club. Is this a reference to your storeroom?”
“No. I’m just wondering why you were late, I guess.”
Dorian finishes adding the milk and keeps whisking. “I was trying to take your advice that day and write something that produced the feelings I’ve had about my dad’s heart disease. It didn’t really work, so I tried writing his story—journaling, I guess—but even that wasn’t hitting the spot.” He sends me a sheepish look. “None of it put me in the flow.”
“You still got caught up in it.”
“I get caught up in a lot of things. I told you I’m medicated, but that doesn’t make me perfect.”
My arms drop to my sides. “I didn’t think it was afailing,Dorian. I just want to understand.”
“I’m not sure I even do.”
“That’s okay. No one’s perfect. I wear pajamas as often as humanly possible. I would wear them to work if I didn’t think it would lower my sales. And I refuse to accept that the moon landing was a hoax. Don’t start listing the proof, or I’ll walk out that door.”
“I won’t.”
I crack a smile. “I am too independent, but somehow still a little needy.”
“How?”
“Like, all week I’ve been dying to see you, but since I’m independent, I’ve refused to be the first one to text you.”
“Noticed that,” he says softly, stirring white cheese into the sauce and sprinkling it with a few spices. “Anything else I should know about you?”
My heart hammers hard in my chest. If I was going to admit my secret profession, now would be the time, right? He’s given me an opening. We’ve already been talking about writing. The door is right there.
Dorian pulls the chicken from the oven, which is off but still warm, and drains the pasta. He’s moving around the kitchen so much I can’t bring myself to stall him with my admission.
Before I know it, we’re seated at the island together, plates of creamy pasta with sliced chicken and asparagus before us. He pours two glasses of ice water and carries them over, and I guzzle half of mine down, searching for the courage to reveal my biggest secret.
“Dig in,” he says, waiting for me to take the first bite.
Now. Now is the moment to tell him. But then my gaze drifts to the stack of books on the end of the island, a few of his own books next to the recent Clancy Calloway novel he bought from my store. The cover is lifted slightly, bent in the way that only happens when it’s been held open from being read.
Dorian tracks my gaze. “Oh, I finished it. I forgot to tell you.”
“Yeah?” My throat goes dry.Come on, words. Don’t fail me now.
“It was good.”
His mediocre response dives straight to my stomach. “Contrived?”
“No. I see what you mean about the reasons—there’s definitely a reason for everything. It’s very thoughtful and ties together well at the end.”
