I pause before clearing my throat and facing away from him. “Then sure. Let me check what I have.”
With a tug, I open the fridge and immediately feel the cool air against my cheeks. It’s a small reprieve from the blistering gaze on my back.
There’s nothing in my fridge that I can use to cook anything of substance. My skills in the kitchen are minuscule unless I’mtoasting a bagel or scrambling eggs. Surely, a man like Roman isn’t interested in either of those things.
I don’t even have eggs.
The heat of his hand settling firmly on my spine has me jerking and nearly smashing my head on the fridge. He chuckles and leans in beside me, inspecting the few items on the shelves. I hold my breath while standing beside him, hoping that he can’t feel the way I’ve started trembling.
“Go sit down. I’ll cook,” he says, already ushering me away from the fridge.
My bare feet stick to the tile as I take two steps to the side and watch as he starts pulling open every drawer and rooting through the food inside. The freezer is next, before suddenly, he’s got his arms full.
“You know what to do with all of that?” I ask.
His eyes find me over his shoulder before they’re sliding to a pink bar stool. “Sit.”
“Yes, sir.”
He coughs suddenly, and I swear the back of his neck goes red while I sit. “Don’t start with me, Brielle. Just sit and let me cook for you.”
“It’s been a long time since a man has cooked for me,” I blurt.
A half-used package of bacon, Parmesan cheese, and a package of frozen pasta find the countertop. There’s a steady calm to his movements as he starts searching through my cabinets.
“Why is that?”
“Do I really come off like the type of woman who invites men over to prepare dinner for her often?”
“You have a brother. Doesn’t he cook for you?”
I snort a loud, disbelieving laugh. “Wes? Yeah, right. You’re funny.”
When Roman twists to pin me beneath a flat stare, I quickly realize it wasn’t meant to be a joke.
“Does he just not know how to cook, or is there another reason why he doesn’t come over here to take care of you?” he asks sharply.
My heart throbs behind my ribs as I look harder at him, trying to find the reason behind his concern. “It’s not that he doesn’t take care of me. Although I don’t need anyone to do that.”
“I know you don’t. He’s your family, and I expected him to do it regardless of need.”
“You sound like our father,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
Roman finds where I store my pink pans and sets a medium-sized one a bit harder than necessary on the stove before adding a pot next to it. “How so?”
“He’s hard on Wes. Harder than he should be, considering their rocky relationship.”
“I’ve heard . . . rumblings about that around the clubhouse.”
I sigh, propping my chin up in my hand. “Great. I’m sure Wes loves the gossip.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone what we speak about tonight. If you need to vent or just talk, you’re more than welcome to.”
Lowering my eyes, I fixate on a dark spot on the marble countertop so I don’t stare at him as boldly as I want to. He’d be able to see everything I’m feeling if I did that, and I know he’s not ready for that truth bomb yet. I’m not even sure thatIam when everything here is still so new. I mean, come on, this is the first time he’s been inside my apartment, let alone being this open with speaking.
“Our father wants Wes to be perfect. The perfect son, perfect brother, and perfect ballplayer. That pressure’s been slowly crushing him since he was a little boy, even when I tried totake some of it away. I’ve only ever wanted to make clothes, and that wasn’t of interest to our dad. I guess that’s why he put so much focus on my brother, even though he’s outright hated baseball all our lives,” I explain, hating how tight my throat’s gotten. “Mom is the opposite. To this day, I know the only reason they’ve stayed married is because she doesn’t want to be alone and would rather we appear like the perfect family to all of her equally perfect friends. They hate each other. I’ve never looked at them and thought that they were what real love should look like. They aren’t an example of anything but the consequences of marrying the wrong person.”
I force myself to stop talking. There’s the sound of water running before a loud sizzling begins where the bacon is cooking on the stove. The noises fill the almost awkward silence that’s beginning to settle, so I don’t immediately want to crawl out of my skin.
