He smiles brightly, making my heat drop again. "Oh my, shecusses?"he says while arching his brow with amusement, making my jaw drop on a scoff.
"No, I don't!"I put my hand to my mouth, glaring at him.
“Ohhh, you may not cuss, but you definitelywhine, don't you?”Alexander teases further, his blue eyes sparkling as he looks down at me.
My mouth falls open with an offended gasp, and he just continues to watch me with open amusement. Just like a psychiatrist.
I feel the color rise in my cheeks as my face turns so hot I know he can see. “I donot!” I say. My fingers fly up to wrap around my throat as if to hold the words in because Itotallyjust whined.
Suddenly, it hits me like a ton of bricks that he'sflirting with me.
“W-Well, how can I help with breakfast?” I attempt to change the subject, but I have a hard time getting even those simple words out.
The amused look on Alexander’s handsome face makes me breathless. Even grieving, I'm not immune to him. He's handsome, but I'll get over it.
Er…Maybe not.
I fight to keep from trembling as he raises his arm to my shoulder, turning me gently as he walks us out of the lounge and towards the kitchen. I notice with pleasure that he likes to touch me a lot. At the knowledge, I feel even more shy, hunching up my shoulders as I dare to peek a look up at him.
“You can sit there and give me company. I hate cooking alone. It’s nice to actually have someone to cook for,” he says, walking me to the island and pulling out a stool for me to sit on before continuing on to the double-sided refrigerator and pulling out ingredients.
He washes his hands and tells the sound system to play the soundtrack fromThe Gladiator.
I settle in my seat and force myself to sound normal as we converse while he fixes us breakfast. Listening intently as he shares with me how he’d gotten into playing the cello. That because he used to be teased mercilessly in school over his musical interests, he had to learn to defend himself. "My parents enrolled me in boxing lessons, and the two passions sort of grew out of me simultaneously," he says.
Now I'll admit, it's incredibly difficult for me to believe that the obviously confident and charismatic Alexander Richardson standing in front of me now was ever bullied. "I guess you just never can tell where people come from, can you?" I say softly, watching while he works.
He throws me a pointed look. "No," he chuckles, before turning back to the stove. "That's the highest fallacy a person could make, assuming to know anything."
My eyes roam his strong arms as I nod my head, now aware as to why he's so fit and his arms so muscular. It's not a vanity thing with him; it's a self-preservation thing. I've gleaned in the last couple days little pockets and glimpses of his vulnerability, and I hope I make him feel safe enough to keep sharing these little bits of information.
I lick my lips and speak, sharing with him something of myself, so I can focus on my words and not my improper thoughts.
I hope he doesn’t catch me staring too hard at him as I stammer, struggling to get the words out. I’m content with Alexander possibly feeling like I'm simpleminded and not lustful.
I shouldn’t be lusting after a man so soon after what happened to me.
Alexander pays attention to the food, listening avidly while I share that I was forced to learn how to play the piano as a child. But I don’t play much, preferring to sing more.
“Youcanhave more than one passion that you nurture, you know. Who said you have to choose?” Alexander asks, pouring the eggs into the meat and vegetable mixture in the stainless-steel skillet.
My parents.I scrunch my nose up, looking a little harder at what he's doing.“That’s not going to stick?”I ask, my brow arches as I watch him work over the eggs, stirring them slowly. "I threw my stainless steel pans away because everything I cooked stuck or burned."
"Threw them away?"His gaze meets mine again, and his eyes flicker to my lips and back as he pins me with an amused expression.
I nod, suddenly feeling foolish.
“If you heat a stainless-steel skillet on the stove on medium for several minutes, it’ll close the pores and become nonstick." His eyes bore into me, not letting me break away. Then he points the spatula at me, making me smile. "That’s what’s wrong with most people. They're always in a hurry; never wanting to be patient enough to wait for good results. They would rather eat something broken and torn up, because they couldn’t wait for their product to heat up enough for their results to come out whole and intact." My brows raise.
Oh my God, is he using food to allude to what I think he is?My heart races, the feeling not letting up even when he turns from me back to the stove.
"Patience is better, helps flavor, and the overall dynamic of the experience,” he quips, turning off the stove and sprinkling sharp cheddar cheese on top before setting the lid on the eggs to finish melting the cheese.
I scoff, blinking as my eyes flicker side to side, never having thought about anything the way he’d just described a simple meal.
“So, you consider yourself a patient man, then?” I dare to ask. My fingers resume stroking down my hair, steadily rotating one hand over the other.
A devilish smile broadens his lips as he takes the folded dish towel off the counter and grabs the skillet before turning to place it on an iron rack in front of me. “One of my better qualities,” he muses in a low tone, turning to grab two plates and two forks.
