“Do you need any help?” he asked.
“No, I’ve got it. Thanks, though.”
I started putting things back in the refrigerator. He hesitated for a moment, watching me, almost as if he wanted to say something.
Or kiss me again.
But no, that was just my imagination. He left the kitchen, disappearing down the hall to his bedroom.
He hadn’t kissed me because he wanted to. Because he was attracted to me. No, he’d done it to help me. It had been fake. Just pretend.
Friends. We were just friends.
With a deep breath, I went back to work on the chicken burrito bowls I’d been planning to make for the week. The familiar movements of chopping and mixing eased my jitters. By the time Theo came out of his bedroom, dressed in a clean T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, I was much less jumpy.
He paused in the kitchen doorway. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”
“Nope. Almost done.”
“Those look great.” He went to the refrigerator and got out some leftovers. “You keep spoiling me, though. I’m going to have to learn to make better lunches for myself. I can’t go back to boring sandwiches after this.”
The subtle reminder of his upcoming move felt like a pinprick.
A sharp one.
“It’s not difficult.” I tried to sound cheerful. “You just have to make time to do it.”
He warmed his leftovers in the microwave while I finished the burrito bowls with a sprinkling of chopped green onions. I put the lids on, and he took his dinner out and gave it a quick stir.
“Thanks again,” he said.
“For what?”
He hesitated, his eyes on mine. “Lunch.”
“Yeah, of course.”
I ran through the reasons that kiss had been fake—and couldn’t be anything but fake—while he took his dinner to the other room, and I put our lunches away and cleaned up.
Just friends. South Carolina. Just friends. South Carolina. Just friends.
South Carolina.
He turned on the TV and I joined him in the living room. I’d eaten with Grandma, so I wasn’t hungry, but it was too early to go to bed. I probably should have gone to my room to read or something, but his magnetism was too strong. Even though I knew I was making it harder on myself.
Eventually, I got too drowsy to stay up any longer. I went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When I came out, Theo was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone to his room.
With a long exhale, I went to my bedroom and quietly shut the door.
It was almost November. That meant about seven months until he left. Seven months of living under the same roof. Of bedhead and tired morning smiles. Of quiet good nights and sleeping one room away. Of knowing that Theo Haven was the best guy I’d ever met, but we weren’t meant to be.
Hours later, I was still wide-awake, my thoughts a tangled mess. My body wasn’t helping, either. The heat of that kiss—that one stupid kiss—flowed through me like fire. I was restless, antsy, unsatisfied. And apparently not sleeping any time soon.
After tossing and turning for a while longer, trying to find a position that would enable me to finally relax, I gave up and threw off the covers. Maybe chamomile tea would help.
I got out of bed and felt around the side table for my glasses. Without bothering to turn on the light, I put them on and quietly opened the door.
Just as I was about to slip down the hallway to the kitchen, Theo’s door opened.
