After coming up with ten different responses and immediately rejecting them, I finally settle on, “You don’t have to cook for me. But if you’ve already started?—”
“I know I don’t have to.” Sofia gives the pan a swift shake, sending whorls of steam rising from it. She peers at the contents with a critical eye, then turns the burner off and sets the pan to the side. As she reaches up to the pot rack hanging above the island—a pot rack I haven’t touched since I moved in three years ago, I realize—her shirt rises up, exposing a sliver of bare skin.
My dick twitches again.
Stop it,I order silently.It’s her stomach. Nothing to get excited about.
In an attempt to distract myself from that sliver of pale skin, I ask, “Do you need any help? Toppings? Silverware? Anything?”
Sofia puts a fresh pan on the burner and drizzles a bit of oil into it. “I didn’t see sour cream in the fridge, or I would have made avocado crema. But if you think there’s something you might want…” She angles her chin at a small pile of sliced limes sitting on a cutting board by the sink. “I thought those might help add some flavor.”
“Do you want sour cream? Salsa? I can place a delivery order.”
She tosses a tortilla shell into the sizzling pan. “It’s your place, Nico. Your fridge. What I want has nothing to do with it.”
“It matters,” I reply. “You’re living here?—”
“As an unwanted guest,” she shoots back.
“That’s not true.”
Her brows arch up. “Really? You’regladI’m here?”
Glad? I’m not sure that’s the right word. But unwanted? That’s not right, either.
“You’re not unwanted, Sofia.” I slide onto a stool so I’m not towering over her. “I want you here. Okay?”
An unreadable emotion darkens her gaze. “You don’t have to lie, Nico.”
“I’m not.”
But she did.
It’s the massive elephant in the room we’ve been avoiding for the last few days. And like I told Knight, I know we need to talk about it. I’ve just been waiting for the right time.
But is this it?
Part of me wants to keep delaying it. To give Sofia more time to recover. To let this tentative truce we’ve reached continue. To eat dinner together and, just for a few minutes, pretend everything is normal.
Everything’s not normal, though, is it?
And despite my body’s response to Sofia, I can’t forget what she did. Understand? Yes. But forget how much it hurt when I discovered she lied to me? I can’t.
While I spin the possible conversation in my head, Sofia finishes cooking the tortillas and arranges them on a plate. Then she makes up two tiny fajitas and squeezes a lime wedge over them. “I’ll come back to clean up after you’re done.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Sofia takes her plate and starts heading out of the kitchen. “Once you’re done eating,” she clarifies. “I’ll come back in twenty minutes or so to do the dishes.”
“Where are you going?”
She glances at her plate. “Into the bedroom. To eat.”
“No.” It’s immediate. Instinctive. “You don’t need to hide in the bedroom to eat. And if you cooked, I should be the one cleaning up.”
“Nico.” A sad expression moves across her face. “I think it would be better if I eat in the bedroom. And I’ll clean up later.”
The elephant in the room grows larger until there’s barely room for anything else.
