“Something funny?” I spin toward him, my hands on my hips.
“Art never said you cooked.”
I can’t remember the last time I cooked for Art. He’s always bringing in takeout or ordering pizza. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the hurt from flashing on my face.
“Well, believe it or not, I’m not always plotting the destruction of your joy. I do have other hobbies.”
Hobbies, a destroyed career ambition. Toe-may-to, toe-mah-to.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“I used to work in a restaurant back home.”
“Oh?” He moves closer, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “As a bartender?”
My throat swells. “A sous-chef actually.”
He takes another step. “Smells good.”
“It’s just stew. Nothing fancy.”
And then, right on cue, his stomach growls.
“Do you… Are you hungry?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m a fantastic liar,” he says. “But really, you don’t have to feed me.”
“Sit.”
He tilts his head like he can’t figure out why I’m offering him anything at all.
Honestly, I can’t figure it out, either.
But the slow cooker’s full, I’m tired, and feeding people is the only thing that’s ever really made me feel like I had purpose.
Stew lands in the bowl as I plate it for two. “Sit.”
He still doesn’t move.
“Christ, I’m not offering you my virginity. I’m just offering you a bowl of food.”
He inhales and then chokes, and I belatedly realize that maybe bringing up my nonexistent virginity with a man who looks like he’d wreck my vagina is not polite conversation.
Another unwanted image of him shirtless and sweaty flashes through my mind.
Oh my God. What the hell is wrong with me?
Art, I remind myself.I’m only imagining Art.
He drags the chair from my round table and lowers into it. A smug wash of satisfaction runs through me because he’s listening, and I set the bowl down before taking the seat on the other side.
My knees brush his when I do, and I hold still like breathing too hard might make it happen again.
He’s really gigantic.
