Page 13 of The Spark Between Us

I held up a hand. “Okay, stop. Please. I know you’re trying to be a good host, but really? I can eat all your food and move your stuff around? You’re not weirdly protective of your mustard or something? You have no TV preferences? Come on, no one is that easy going.” I beckoned him with my hand. “Give me something. An Australian-rules football obsession, cheesy reality dating shows? Do you sneak tabloids to read about English royals? Watch the Puppy Bowl instead of the Super Bowl? I promise I won’t blab to your dudes at the fire station, so just spill it, roomie.”

I had no idea if it was the ridiculousness of thinking of me as his roomie or the obvious gauntlet I’d thrown down over mustard, but I Braden’s face cracked into the first grin since finding out I was Finn’s sister. And at the sight of his beautiful smile, I outright blushed.

If he noticed, he gave no indication. “Okay, fair enough. You might as well know that I’m a nut for March Madness, and I’ll watch every game I can. But I watch some of them at the station, so I’m not like a cave bat here all day and night.”

It was the most he’d said at one time since we’d met. “Okay then. I like basketball, but I don’t know the college teams well enough to make picks for the tournament. Unless Cal makes it in, then I’m all about filling out a bracket and rooting for them to the death.”

“They look good this year—maybe we’ll have to have a little competition if they’re in it,” he challenged, rubbing his hands together, eyes ablaze.

“Competition? Oh yeah, now you’re speaking my love language.” As soon as I said it, the slight smile I’d earned disappeared and he turned slightly away from me.

Was he shy? Grumpy? Socially awkward? Even though I barely knew him, it pained me that he kept shutting down.

So I backpedaled. “Anyway, I like basketball well enough. And the occasional episode of Top Chef. And Bake Off. Ooh, and Chopped. Okay, I’m a little obsessed with all cooking shows.”

“Yet I hear you don’t cook,” he challenged.

I gave him a side-eye. “Finn told you that?”

“He might have mentioned.” His smile returned as more of a smirk.

I folded my arms over my chest and jutted one hip to the side. “I can cook. I mostly don’t cook for one because that’s a waste of time, but I have serious salad skills.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I don’t cook that much either. I don’t think it’s a character flaw.” He went over and collected stuffed animal carcasses with the fluff strewn everywhere and squeaky balls, dropping them in a basket by the door.

“I cook,” I insisted sternly, narrowing my eyes at him.

“I believe you.” His shrug made me think he didn’t.

“I’ll prove it. I’ll cook you dinner, and you’ll see I give those Top Chefs a run for their arugula.” I tipped my head to the side and grinned. Besides having something to prove, I wanted to pull my weight around here.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You don’t have to do that. Really.”

“I want to, and I will.” I narrowed my eyes so he’d see the seriousness. When I set my mind on something, it would happen. He might as well understand that about me.

“Fine. I look forward to it,” he conceded.

He motioned me to follow him upstairs. On the gray-carpeted landing, we faced several closed doors. The first opened to a laundry room. “There are towels here and sheets, but everything in your room is clean.”

“Great. I like a clean towel,” I chirped.

He pushed the door open to the next room and pointed. “Gym. Has everything. Feel free to use the equipment if you’re into it.” He was almost awkward in his deadpan presentation.

“I’m not into it. In fact, I hate it, but I know it would be good for me to use all the heavy pieces of metal, pain contraptions, and vomit machines.”

“Vomit machines?”

“It’s how I think of treadmills and bikes.” He blinked a couple times, and I nodded enthusiastically. “Awesome, glad they’re so handy. I won’t even have to leave the house to suffer.”

“You don’t have to work out if you don’t want to,” he whispered gently like he was trying not to frighten an insane person.

“Okay,” I whispered.

He led me to a third door and swung it open, then took a few steps back and pointed from the hallway. “Bed, dresser. Bathroom’s over there. Little desk...”

It was no tiny beige box. “It’s perfect.” I couldn’t hide my grin. The window shades were pulled high, and the warm afternoon light flooded the room. On the bed, a fluffy white comforter with a cream-colored throw blanket tempted me to dive among pillows and sleep for a week.

The desk was a slab of barn wood on two metal trestles, and at the foot of the bed, a brown steamer trunk with vintage straps completed the look. “This room is gorgeous. I can’t thank you enough. It’s really great.”

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