Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
When I don’t respond, he looks over, meeting my frown.
“The little pepper flakes…”
“...like pizza peppers?”
He grins and turns to lean his tailbone against the small countertop. “Were you paying attention when we put in the spices?”
To the food? No. To the focus and peacefulness that takes you over when you cook? Yes. Yes, I was.
“No?”
He laughs, playfully hitting me with the dishtowel.
I pop a shoulder. “I figured my job was to hand you stuff and give you honest opinions on taste.”
“Uh-huh, and how are you supposed to make it on your own if you do that?” he teases.
“Okay, wow. If I gave you the impression that would be a possibility, I am so sorry.” I grin, a laugh slipping through. “Basically, I’m going to need you and your black jacket worthy skills to survive away from home.”
I expected him to laugh or joke back, but he doesn’t.
Noah’s gaze floats across my face, and he gives a nearly undetectable nod. “I think that could work out.”
I don’t know, why but heat slowly spreads up my neck.
He sees it and rather than turning around and pretending he hasn’t, he follows the warmth past my collarbone. I should look away, but I don’t want to. I want to watch him watch me. When his midnight eyes land on mine, something low in my gut twists. It tangles and pulls and I whip around to face the counter. I move the bag with the chili ingredients in it to the side, setting the one full of stuff to make pot pie in its place.
My limbs are heavy, fuzzy, but I breathe through it, swallowing beyond the knot in my throat.
“I swear to god, Noah, if this pot pie tastes good, there will be no freezing of anything. I’ll be eating it all tonight, no joke.”
Noah’s laugh is low and sultry.
Or I’m losing my mind and need to get a grip, I can’t be sure.
He takes the hot pot of chili to the tiny table covered in potholders, setting it down beside the tray of meatballs. “We’re not making one big one. We can’t freeze it like that. We have to make a few small ones.”
“K, let’s do that… but also make a big one we can eat tonight?” I smile like a psycho, showing all my teeth. “We can veg out until my leggings are too tight.”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “You want to hang tonight?”
My eyes bulge. “Oh my gosh! I… totally invited myself to stay.” I avert my gaze. “Ignore me, keep going. What do I do next? Set the oven temp, right? That’s step one?”
“Juliet.”
My muscles tense the slightest bit. “Yeah?” I line up the ingredients, no clue what order they should be in, or if it even matters.
“You’re my only plans,” he shares.
I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly nervous.
Noah senses it, chuckling as he comes to stand beside me, calling my gaze to his. He lifts his hand, as if he was about to reach out and touch me but decides better of it, quickly lowering it to the bag beside us. His eyes, though, they stay on mine. “You wanna stay, veg until your leggings are too tight and I’ve gotta loan you a pair of sweats?” His mouth hooks higher. “Watch a movie with me?”
“Yeah.” My brows pull. “I do.”
He nods several times before blowing out a breath and turning to the sink to rinse the chicken. Who knew that was a thing?
The pot pies take the longest out of all the meals we made today, if you count the baking time. Once the big one is ready to be cut into, Noah grabs plates, but I put them back, stuff two forks into my hoodie pocket, and carry the entire pie into the living room.
We eat straight out of the throwaway tinfoil tray, watching Bad Boys For Life in comfortable silence.
At some point during the movie, I shift closer to Noah. My shoulder is now pressed to his, my bent knees resting against his thick, football player thighs.
When I tuck my hands into my lap, he reaches behind us, grabbing a blanket. He drapes it over my legs without a word, leaving his arm to rest along the back of the couch.
I sink in a little more as he settles into the cushions.
When a low sigh escapes him, my mind begins to wander.
I watched him closely tonight. The peaceful look on his face, the ease of his movements, it’s so obvious he’s at home when cooking, as if it’s second nature for him. It reminded me of being at home, watching my parents in the kitchen.
He kind of reminds me of home.
And that… is kind of scary.
Chapter 18
Arianna
* * *
Putting the car in park, Noah turns off the engine and looks at me. “You mean to tell me you’ve never had sushi?”