“So…you do really do this?” she asks, sounding genuinely shocked, like she expected to catch me in a lie.
“Every damn Friday,” Ethan shouts from the couch before I can answer. “Well, most Fridays when we're not out partying. So, some Fridays. It's like a religious experience, a tradition!”
“And Troy takes it weirdly seriously,” Alfie mutters, not looking up from his controller. The door between the rooms is wide open so we can all hear each other's bullshit.
“I take greatness seriously,” I reply, flipping a tortilla with one hand because I'm showing off and not even trying to hide it. “This, my friends, is how you cook a tortilla perfectly. Notice the optimal gold-to-brown ratio.”
Delilah snorts from across the kitchen. “Do you always narrate your cooking?”
“Only when the audience is pretty.”
A dramatic sigh escapes Freddie, and Tara hurls a kitchen towel at my head without even looking up.
“Gross,” she mutters.
But Delilah just arches a brow, a flush creeping up her neck. Her eyes meet mine with a challenge that makes my heart slam against my ribs.
“These hands are magic, Greer, magic,”
“I'll believe it when I taste it, Hawkins.”
Christ. The way she says my name—half dismissive, halftaunting—it does things to me. Dangerous things. I grip the spatula harder, forcing myself to focus on the food instead of fantasizing about backing her against the fridge and showing her exactly what my hands are capable of.
The others are setting the table, Tara barking orders like she's hosting the damn Queen of England instead of a Fridaynight fajita fest, and Delilah just... hovers. Not awkward exactly. Just watchful. Observing everything like she's taking mental notes.
I like having her here.
More than I should.
She keeps brushing that one strand of hair out of her face and sneaking glances at the stove like she wants to ask something.
The urge to tuck that stubborn strand behind her ear is almost overwhelming. I want to touch her so badly my fingers ache with it.
I nudge her with my elbow instead, keeping a safe distance.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She turns to look at me, and her eyes are bright, and a little surprised.
“I'm fine,” she says. “It's just... a lot of energy in here.”
“Yeah, we're not great at chill,” I say. “But you're doing good.”
She rolls her eyes. “I'm not some fragile little kitten.”
“No, Mittens,” I murmur. “You're definitely not that.”
I flip another tortilla and glance over at her. “I like you being here.”
She glances at me sideways. “Yeah?”
I nod. “It's nice. Like I've got a silent sous-chef who judges my technique with her eyes.”
I hold out a lime and a knife. “Wanna be on citrus duty? I trust you with sharp objects. Mostly.”
There's a pause. Then a small shrug. “Okay.”
“Don't say I never gave you anything, Greer.”
