She places her coffee cup on the table and slips on some oven gloves to open the range door. The delicious scent of fresh dough attacks my senses, and my mouth waters.
“It’s a long story,” she says, tipping the pretzels onto a large plate. She turns off the oven and discards her glove, then walks over to the table with the food.
I walk over to her and pull out the chair for her before taking her coffee cup. I notice the small crescent-like dents marking the Styrofoam as I pour the remaining liquid into an empty mug already on the table.
Damn, she’s so nervous.
I can see it in the way she’s fidgeting and in the way she’s avoiding my eyes. I want to tell her it’s okay, but I opt for a different approach.
“Tell me the story,” I say as I take my seat next to her and rest my elbow on the table, placing my chin on my palm.
She hesitates for a beat and then starts.
“Mr. Silver was an awful cook. He was in charge of us for one weekend and burnt two pans. Dad found this little place that sold pretzels and cheese sauce. They replaced the pretzels with waffles after a year, but it stuck. Now I make them every other Saturday.”
She pauses, her eyes flicking to the window as if the memory’s pulling her back.
I stay quiet, just watching her. There’s vulnerability in the way she talks about her family. She’s giving me a tiny glimpse into her past, and I can’t help but wonder how much more there is.
I send another little prayer to anyone who will listen. That, over time, she’ll tell me more stories just like that one.
“You’re adopted?”
“Yeah. I moved in with Bella’s family when I was twelve.” She pauses. “They had connections because of what they did for work, and my adoption was fast-tracked. I got lucky.”
There’s a glimmer in her gaze that makes her whiskey-colored eyes pop. It’s the kind of liquor I’d happily drown in over and over again.
“I have cereal if you?—”
I place my hand over hers, silencing her words.
“Pretzels and cheese sauce with you sounds pretty great, Bookworm.”
She looks up, her cheeks tinge, and the energy shifts around us.
I can feel it, this pull. I’m being drawn in. There’s a depth to her—warmth, realness—and I want more of it. The realization tells me one thing.
I’m fucked.
“Oh my God!”I yell as I move to grab a tea towel as fast as I can to mop up the coffee I just knocked all over the table and onto Chase’s lap. Chase just laughs. “I’m so sorry,” I stammer, as I hand it to him.
“It’s alright, Bookworm, it’s just coffee. It’ll come out.” His voice is neutral, relaxed—so different from the way my pulse hammers under my skin.
My flesh burns hot, betraying me in the most obvious way, and I force myself to breathe deeply before I can overthink myself into a mess.
“Can I grab a shower?” he asks.
“Yes, of course,” I say, staring at the stain on his clothes and moving for the stairs, leading him into the guest bathroom. And because I’m an idiot, I simply point at the shower stall and the towel cabinet and speak like a cave woman.
“Shower. Towels.”
His grin is boyish as he mimics my movements. He points to himself first and then me.
“Chase. Erin.”
God, why does he have to smile like that?
My stomach does a slow flip as I leave him to it before I can embarrass myself any further in front of this beautiful specimen of a man.
