Page 11 of Heart Match

‘It’s Mrs. Thompson. She can’t see well anymore, but boy can she hear. Problem is, every time someone’s in the hall, she comes by the door to check who it is,’ I explain all this almost whispering, so she doesn’t hear it of course.

Cute guy chuckles and hands me the flowers. I might need to mention this to the girls: I didn’t have to sleep with him before getting flowers.

Once inside, I pour water into a vase, and he’s watching me with hands in his pockets, elbow propped on the kitchen island so that he’s leaning sideways. For a moment I think it’s best we skip dinner and go play on my bed. But I remember it’s probably best I ask his name first.

Once the flowers are set on the black surface of the kitchen island, I offer him something to drink and he accepts water. I’m also drinking water tonight, there is no chance I will be drinking alcohol for the next month. Unless I really need it, which I hope I won’t.

‘It smells amazing,’ he says, approaching me at the kitchen counter as I grab the package of pasta.

‘I hope you like pasta,’ I say.

‘It’s only my favourite food,’ he says, our eyes meet and so do our smiles. There’s something easy about the way we stare into each other’s eyes at this moment, it’s as if we’re both searching for something only the other has. It feels familiar, and safe, and normal.

‘Good. I hope you also like black truffles,’ I say as I pour the pasta into the pan.

‘Oh yes.’

He gets closer so he can smell the freshly made black truffle sauce. The proximity reminds me of him touching my back.

‘I see you like cooking,’ he says.

‘I do. I find it to be very therapeutic, and fun,’ I say, taking a little sample of the sauce with a spoon for him to try.

‘This is amazing,’ he says with his eyes closed, tasting the sauce.

I can’t help but watch him attentively, noticing his thick long lashes.

‘I know, right?’

If there’s something I’m always proud of, it’s my cooking. When I cook. Lately, I haven’t been doing much cooking.

‘Never tried this one at home before,’ he says.

‘Do you cook?’

‘I do.’

Oh.

I’m facing the stove, he’s right next to me with his firm gorgeous ass pressed against the countertop, arms and feet crossed in front of him. Again, we find ourselves staring at each other. No shame in it, even though my heart is already betraying me by beating faster than it should.

‘So … I was talking to a friend of mine today and she thinks I should know your name before I feed you,’ I say it matter-of-factly, but it comes out a bit weird.

He lets out the same delicious laugh from the lift.

‘Do you want to know my name?’

Why does he look so amused? And what kind of question is that? Of course!

‘I wouldn’t mind if you told me …’ I say, letting the corner of my mouth muster a smile.

‘Funny, my brother also thinks I should ask yours, Miss Charlton …’

Now it’s my turn to laugh. Of course he knows my last name, it’s on my front door.

‘Smart brother you have,’ I say.

‘It’s Lucas,’ he says it with a cute accent that now I’m sure is French. He has a funny grin on his face, like it’s entertaining to say your own name to someone.

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