Page 36 of 7 Nights of Sin

It would be worth it, though.

I opened my mouth to ask her about how work had gone that day and then stopped. I didn't want to talk about her work. I was her work, basically, and whenever we talked about it, she got angry. Probably with good reason. I didn't want to invite conflict. I wanted to get to know her better.

"What's your favorite kind of food these days?" I asked instead.

She frowned as she chewed a mouthful of pasta and then washed it down with the white wine. "Why? Are you planning to cook for me every night I'm here?"

"Maybe," I said, and then I shrugged. "It's nice to have someone to cook for, actually. It's harder to justify doing a nice dinner when it's just for me, you know? And usually I'm too busy to really enjoy it."

She nodded, pushing noodles around on her plate with her fork. "I understand that. I honestly can't remember the last time I had a meal someone made for me. Someone who doesn't work in a restaurant, I mean. It's easier to have food delivered if I'm going to be working late, and even if I do get home early, I don't have much energy when it comes to cooking."

"And you're a terrible cook," I teased before I could think better of it. I'd had enough of Caro's thrown together dinners back in the day to know that unless she'd taken some serious lessons or spent some time learning some other way, she probably still couldn't manage more than boxed mac and cheese on a good day.

Caro rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile playing around her mouth. "Whatever," she said. "I have other talents, and I can afford to have food brought to me most of the time. I make do."

“Carolyn James,” I said, lifting my glass to her. “I think you’re the queen of making do.”

She snorted, but there was a pleased little blush on her face, and it made me feel warm to see it. The more interactions we could have without her finding more reasons to hate me, the better things would be.

I wanted something from her, but she had to want it, too.

We finished eating, but neither of us made a move to get up just yet. I poured more wine for myself, and Caro held her glass out, letting me fill it again.

We sat there, sipping and savoring, barely talking, but trading glances every now and then. It was comfortable and awkward all at the same time because I kept thinking about dancing with her, twirling her across the kitchen and then that dip. The way I’d felt her back against my palm, warm and solid even under a layer of clothes. And then I’d seen that same back, watched the curve of it where it met her ass, and it was hard to think about anything else.

Especially with the wine in me.

Finally, Caro pushed back from the table, finishing her glass and gathering the plates. “I’ll do the dishes,” she said. “It’s only fair since you did the cooking.”

I quirked a little smile because that had always been our arrangement. Whenever I cooked, she would load the dishwasher in my apartment, singing to herself while she did it. I wondered if that was still her habit.

I moved to help her, gathering the rest of the things and piling them neatly near the sink to be washed. We still weren’t talking, but that tension from earlier was back. Whenever I turned to do something, I could feel Caro’s eyes on me, and I wondered if she could feel mine on her when her back was to me.

I brought the last of the dishes over, moving closer to her to fill a pot with water to soak. It brought me close enough to her that I could smell her shampoo again, and when she turned to look at me, I was caught in the brightness of her eyes and the smattering of fading freckles on her face.

When I leaned in closer, it was like magnetism. Like I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I was drawn to her, the same way I had been years ago, but I didn’t take that last step. I didn’t close the distance. She had to want it, too.

Her eyes were wide, and her lips parted. I could tell she was either nervous or surprised or some combination of the two.

Just like before, she went to move away, but this time, I didn’t let her. My hand shot out, and my fingers wrapped around her wrist, holding her in place.

It was a light grip, and if she wanted to get away from me, it would be easy for her to do. I expected her to jerk away, to tell me not to touch her, to throw her walls back up and make this ten times harder.

But instead she dragged in a breath and let it out, sounding shaky. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were on my hand on her wrist before they darted up to my face.

“What do you want from me, Kevin?” she asked. For once, there was no anger or hostility in her tone.

I knew the answer to that question, but it didn't seem like the right time to say it. I still didn't know what she wanted, after all, and I didn't want to scare her off while things were still so new between us.

"Do you want me?" I asked her. "Because sometimes it seems like you do."

"You can't answer a question with another question," she mumbled, glancing away. "And it's not fair for you to turn this back on me. Whether I want you or not doesn’t change anything."

She had a million ways to get out of saying what I wanted her to say, but she hadn't pulled away yet. She hadn't told me off for touching her. When I moved in closer, her breath caught, but she didn't move back. There was almost no space between us, and the scent of her shampoo was all I could smell, and I was tired of holding back.

If she didn't want it, I knew she'd let me know in no uncertain terms. And if she did want it...well.

Well.

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