There’s no response at first, and I wonder if he’s left before he continues. “Also ordered one of those big cookies they make. I know you like cookies and thought you might want one.”
“You know I like cookies?”
“Noticed you had one of those tubs of dough in the fridge back at your place.”
I wonder what else he noticed.
“Yeah, that sounds great, actually. Thanks.”
There’s a muffled grunt, and then he’s gone.
I can’t deny the sense that this was some sort of apology. He didn’t have to come tell me what he’d done, after all. I would have figured it out soon enough when I returned to the living room, but he felt the need to come tell me.
The gesture is especially impactful considering DiAngelo doesn’t exactly go out of his way to be sweet. He’s loyal, honorable, and probably has some other glowing qualities that I’ve yet to experience. However, his edges are sharp enough that his softer side is hard to find. He does have one, though. That much is more evident every day.
It makes me want to know how deep that well runs.
And why he keeps it locked away.
Looking down, I realize my hand has lowered and is now resting on the base of the candle on the stone floor. The flame, still flickering, doesn’t hold the same allure as it did moments ago. The wave of panic is no longer crashing over me. DiAngelo’s distraction worked almost as well as the candle.
Maybe even better.
I lift the candle and extinguish the flame with an easy breath. I need to get ready for the pizza and cookie. My stomach is still a little woozy, but it’s feeling better by the minute.
I clean up the wax and change into lounge pants and a camisole with a built-in bra—comfortable, casual, and even a little cute—not that I need to be cute. It just makes me feel better. I assure myself that DiAngelo has nothing to do with my clothing choices. I don’t care what he thinks.
When I see him in the living room, warmth radiates off my skin at the way his eyes rake over my body.
You’re such a liar. You care.
Nobody’s perfect, least of all, me.
I know I shouldn’t want him to want me, but I do. I crave it with every irrational bone in my body.
“Thanks for taking care of dinner,” I offer softly.
He looks down at the beer in his hand as though my words snapped him out of a trance. “Yeah, uh. You want one?” He raises the brown bottle.
I take a seat on the opposite side of the sofa from him. “Nah, I’ll probably just have some water.”
“That juice you wanted is in the fridge,” he tells me. “It accidentally got put in the pantry when the order arrived. I can pour you a glass.”
“Thanks, I’ll get it when the pizza’s here.”
He nods, then taps the remote, and an action movie flicks back to life on the screen. We watch in companionable silence until the food arrives, then move into the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of apple juice and am turning to get pizza when I bump him while he’s getting paper plates, sloshing the juice out of my glass.
“Oops! Sorry!” I squeak.
“I’ll get it.” He takes the glass and sets it on the counter, then gets paper towels.
I bring him the cleaning spray from under the sink. “You don’t want the floor to be sticky.”
He cleans the floor and wipes down my glass before returning it to me. Our hands touch in the process when he doesn’t immediately release the glass.
Time stretches thin like caramel off a freshly dipped apple.
I’m utterly lost in the landscape of colors in his eyes when his lips part.
