Page 80 of The Promise Of You

He shakes his head, writes more stuff in the notebook, then puts the cap back on the pen and comes to stand next to me. “Don’t tell me you’re going to let some asshole dictate what makes you happy.”

“Makes me happy?”

“Cooking.”

Hmm. He noticed. “I thought you said it made me angry.”

He hands me my glass of water, and our fingers touch briefly. He keeps his hold on the glass and answers, “I said you were letting steam out. That was phase one. Now we’re onto phase two. Happy Chloe.” His voices dips a little, and so does his gaze, down to my lips. “Now drink some water.”

And I do, and you’d think the cold would douse everything he does to me.

Nope.

He picks up a fork and digs into the mac’n cheese. I eye him sideways to test his reaction. “Holy fuck,” he mumbles, then looks at me. “Clover—” he starts.

I can’t. I can’t take it. I can’t have him call me Clover. “Please, don’t,” I plead. I feel my eyes betraying my feelings, and I hate myself for that. I’m going to pay later, I know it. But I need him to stop reminding me of everything he gave me that night.

Everything I’ll never have again.

His gaze latches onto mine. “Sorry, I slipped.” His gaze drops down to my mouth, and I turn around to break the connection. To breathe. Does he want this? Do I want this?

His phone buzzes on the counter with an incoming call, and he shoots his hand over to silence it. Then it dings repeatedly with a slew of messages, and I can’t help but look when he grabs it, swipes the messages open and closed, but not quickly enough that I can’t see the picture of a blonde in a suggestive selfie pose.

“Seriously?” he mumbles and starts doing stuff in his phone. “This phishing shit is getting out of control,” he says, and I breathe better. Why am I feeling possessive of him?

“Where were we? Right. Your mac’n cheese.” He takes another forkful and closes his eyes, giving my eyes freedom to roam his chiseled jaw, the gold stubble that grated my thighs not so long ago, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. “That’s the shit. We’re keeping that.”

“I dunno. It’s not easy to eat at a fair. People would have to sit down. Use forks and stuff.”

“Then why’d you make it?”

“As a starting point.”

He snaps his fingers. “Let’s make breadcrumb-coated balls of your mac’n cheese. Deep fried. Bam.”

I dip my fork in the dish and take a bite. “I like the idea.” What could we serve this with? “With tomato soup?” That’s a little basic. I can do better. I load my fork with a heaping serving. The shit is good, and it’s getting to midday.

“Gazpacho,” he says, his eyes shiny.

“Ohmygod—yes! That’s genius,” I spurt with my mouth full. “Little shots of gazpacho!”

He takes a mock bow, his messy blond hair falling all over, and when he straightens, somehow he’s gotten closer to me. Very close. So close it’s hard to swallow.

He flings his finger to the corner of my mouth, wiping it. I stop breathing, my body humming with desire for him. For his touch, his gaze.

His friendship.

All of him.

I know he doesn’t want a relationship. A girlfriend. A date. I could want all of that, with him. But right now, I want his finger back on my mouth. I want it in my mouth.

Is my lust for him going to ruin our new friendship?

He licks the finger that was on my mouth, taking his time, his gaze caressing me, making me miss a heartbeat or two.

“Are you eating food that came from my mouth?” I blurt on a whisper.

He removes his finger from his mouth with a pop and places his hand against the counter, right by my side, his forearm brushing against my waist. “I wish.” His eyes drop to my mouth as he inches closer.

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