"You didn’t answer me. How is the food?"
"It’s… not bad." I set down my fork.
"Not bad?" She rears back in mock horror. "That’s it?”
I tap my fingers on the table. "I can make better pasta than what you get in this restaurant."
"Get out of here," she scoffs.
When I stay silent, genuine amusement filters into her features. "You’re not kidding, I take it."
I shake my head slowly. "You and I have a lot more than my sister in common."
It’s her turn to set down her cutlery. "Like what?"
"I, too, enjoy cooking."
8
Harper
"No." My jaw drops. Thinking of this man in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, crafting a dish to satisfy my palate, is the most erotic thing ever.
"Don’t look so shocked." He chuckles.
The grumpass who’s more given to grunts than words actually chuckles.
His blue eyes turn azure, almost silver. His expression lightens. He seems so much younger than his years.
“I once thought I might pursue a career as a chef. But then”—a shadow crosses his face— “life got in the way.”
From wanting to become a chef to becoming a Marine? I wonder what happened to make him change his mind in such a drastic fashion.
He mentioned it was his friend joining the Marines which inspired him to do the same. But clearly, there's more to that story.
“It’s not too late. You can still study to become a chef,” I point out.
“It might be a little too late for me,” His eyes grow haunted.
“It’s never too late.” I feel the need to soothe him. To reassure him. To show him that there’s more to life than the fatalistic view he seems so keen on taking. "You’re what? A decade older than me?"
His forehead furrows. That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have brought that up. Clearly, our age gap is an issue for him. But really, what is a decade? “You’re in your early thirties. You still have a long life ahead of you.”
His lips tighten. “I hope you’re right.” His voice is somber.
Damn, I'm botching this completely.
He's a Marine. He puts his life on the line every single day, faces death as part of his job, and I just casually threw out "long life ahead of you" like it's a guarantee. Like men in his position don't often come home in flag-draped coffins. It’s a reality he lives with. And I had to refer to it in the most tactless fashion.
I mentally shake myself and try again. "What I'm trying to say is, the number of years between us doesn't matter as much as where we are mentally. Our maturity levels. Our life experience."
I mentally shake myself and try again. “Let me try that again. Chronological years don’t matter as much as your mental perspective.”
He nods slowly. "You're right, of course."
Okay. Good.
His gaze narrows. "But it doesn't negate the fact that you're my little sister's best friend. It's a relationship I don't want to jeopardize."
