I shrug, my gaze never leaving hers. I could drown in her pretty whiskey irises. “They’re your favorite.”
“Thank you.” Her cheeks heat, neither of us breaking eye contact. Not until the grease pops in the pan, her attention snapping back to the meat.
I place the bouquet next to the sink as I lean against the counter, watching her flip the steak. It sizzles loud and hot, and she moves like she’s done this a thousand times.
“Those smell amazing.”
She smirks. “Only the best meat from the best farm.”
I huff a laugh. “You’re cute.”
She turns, leaning against the opposite counter and looking up at me. “This feels like deja vu.”
“That so? I don’t remember you cooking me dinner growing up.”
Wren’s eyes roll. “I just had the girls over for dinner the other night.”
“Any good gossip?”
She taps her finger on her chin. “Only that word of us hate-fucking has spread amongst the masses.”
“Weird,” I say sarcastically. “I have no idea how that could've happened.”
“I swear, Jett Riggsby, you are worse than a woman when it comes to gossip.” She laughs, and for a second, everything feels normal. Easy. Like we’re two people having dinner and not two people trying to figure out how to rebuild our relationship.
We eat at the table overlooking the back field, talking about nothing important while we enjoy the steak, mashed potatoes, and asparagus Wren prepared. Even though our meal is fueled by small talk, mostly her sharing about the upcoming athletic booster’s casino night she’s been helping coordinate, it feels big at the moment. Not because of the topics being discussed, but because we’re sitting across from each other again.
Once we’re both finished, Wren stands from her seat and starts collecting plates, but I grab them from her hands.
“You cooked, I’ll clean,” I answer her unasked question.
“Who are you and what have you done with the boy who used to cheat at rock, paper, scissors to get out of washing dishes after Sunday dinners?”
I chuckle at the memory. “I’m a changed man.”
“The military really worked its magic on you.”
“Or maybe I’ve matured.”
She snorts a laugh. “I bet if I dared you right now, you’d accept the challenge.”
“Well, I’m still a Riggsby.”
We work side by side at the sink, bumping into each other and laughing. Every time her arm brushes mine, I feel the zap across my chest.
It’s not long before we move into the living room, both of us sitting on opposite sides of the couch. I watch as Wren tucks her legs under her, the cotton shirt rising even higher. She pulls her hair free from her clip and that’s when I notice it.
“Your hair.”
Her eyebrows crease.
“It’s back to your natural color. I thought it looked different, but I wasn’t sure if it was my mind playing tricks on me.”
“Oh, yeah, Saylor dyed it on Saturday when I ran into you.”
“It looks good. It looks like you.”
She blushes, and I smile. “I’m really glad you're back, Wren.”
