‘I appreciate that, but I’d hate to overstep and have you get sick of me or something.Also, this is Anya and Mason’s space too, they might not want to have another person here, making things crowded.’
‘I won’t get sick of you.In fact, I think I’m a bit obsessed with you.’
My jaw hits the floor.I gape at him as he casually continues cooking, releasing a soft, low hum as he does.Did he just say that?
‘What do you want to drink?’he asks, pulling the fridge door open and peering inside.‘Lemon, lime and bitters?’
‘S-sure,’ I stammer, still processing what he just said.
Unscrewing the lid, he slides it over to me and continues to dish up the plates.
Finally moving on from the comment, I shake my head, bewildered.I don’t know if he genuinely meant that, but I feel the exact same way about him.I’m trying to understand how he could be feeling that for me.I just don’t get it.
‘Wait,’ I say, staring down at the loaded bowl.‘What is this?Is it spicy?’
‘No.’He shakes his head.‘Just eat it.You’ll like it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I made it,’ he says in aduhtone.
My stomach grumbles and I decide to just do it.I’m not one to be adventurous with my food and this looks a hell of a lot healthier than what I cook, but it looks amazing.The bowl is piled high with glossy cubes of salmon, edamame, carrots, cucumber, with sesame seeds scattered through it.Rice sits beneath with some sort of sauce or dressing drizzled over it.Twisting my fork around, I pile the food on and take a generous bite.An explosion of flavour meets my tongue the moment I shovel it in.A soft moan escapes me.
‘Woah.Whatisthis?’I ask, surprising myself just how much I like it.
‘A secret recipe that has been passed down in my family.I cannot share, otherwise I’d have to kill you.’
‘Right,’ I laugh.‘It’s good.You’re a great cook.’
He bows.‘Thank you.’
Snatching his own bowl off the bench, he moves to take the seat beside me.
‘Have you always played football?’I ask.
‘Mmhmm,’ he answers, mouth full.‘Sure have.’
‘You obviously love it?’
‘What I feel for football is beyond love at this point.How about you?’he asks.‘Did you play any sport growing up?’
‘I used to horse ride but haven’t competed for quite a few years.I just do it for enjoyment now, when I visit back home.’
‘Oh, so you know how to ride?’he asks, sounding innocent.
I laugh.‘Maybe.’
‘I might have to see for myself.’
With cheeks so red you could fry an egg on my skin, I take a long sip of my drink and clear my throat, unable to respond to that in a cool, flirty way.
‘I danced a lot, too.I loved it.I’m enjoying getting back into it now.’
‘Why did you ever stop?’he asks.
Swallowing, I feel my stomach sink, never having admitted this out loud to anyone before, but I feel like I should.‘I overheard my father once telling my stepmum that he was embarrassed that I danced because he viewed me as the “fat” and “awkward-looking” kid on stage.It rocked my confidence and I quit out of the blue.My mum was so upset with me.I’d been doing it for years, so much training, and then I quit with no explanation.I regret it so much.I truly loved it, but I just couldn’t go out on stage anymore with his comment in my mind.It took the enjoyment out of it.’
When I finally dare to look up, Zayden is staring at me, open-mouthed, his fork hanging midway between the bowl and his mouth.He slowly lowers it, still looking shocked.
