Page 62 of Between the Lines

I crack my neck to both sides to dispelthatparticular image, and hop up onto a barstool.

“You don’t cook.” He told me that the first time I’d drooled over his kitchen. “What do you usually eat for breakfast?”

He blinks at me three times, and I stifle my giggle with the back of my hand.

“Wait, let me guess: Cereal? Protein bar? Or are you ablack coffee and bananaguy?”

His cheeks heat with crimson, that color dripping below his collar, and now my core is warm again.

“How aboutImake us breakfast?”

His brows knit together again, and he places both hands on the counter opposite me. Despite the fact that we have the whole island between us, the simple motion makes me feel deliciously caged.

“I wanted to do it for you. To comfort you?—”

“I promise, just the thought of you wanting to do something nice has already boosted my mood. Letting me cook you breakfast will also help. The kitchen is one of my happy places.”

It takes a ten second stare-down and the batting of my lashes to get him to concede. I hop off the stool and head to the walk-in pantry.

“What are you hungry for? I can whip up pretty much anything. I am the least picky person on the planet.” I scoff, looking around the pantry, scouring the shelves, drawers, and built-in countertops. “I guess the better question is, what do you haveingredientsfor?”

“Ham sandwiches. Microwaveable dinners.”

Blushing Nathan is starting to become one of my favorite pictures of him. I purse my lips to keep from teasing him, then get back to digging. In the end, I come up with enough supplies for pancakes.

“I’m surprised I could find all of this,” I say, depositing my spoils onto the island.

“Are you sassing me, Ms. Benson?”

He’s sitting so casually, with his forearms laid across the counter, his hands clasped in front of him. His shoulders have relaxed since I lunged across his doorway in tears. But the smoke in his eyes tells me that those words very well could be kindling.

“And what if I was?” I ask, cracking an egg into a prep bowl.

I remember what he’d looked like with his hand tangled in my hair. The raspy bite of his tone when he’d called me agood girl. I bite my bottom lip, hoping that he sees it as a concentration method for measuring out this cup of milk. He never responds. And honestly? That might be for the better.

As I’m whipping up the batter, he sneaks his way behind me. I wonder for a second if the hand on my hip, the shackle of his behind me, and the unmistakable bulge that presses into my ass is going to be his answer. I stiffen, and by the time I press backward, he’s already moved on, shuffling behind me to get into a cabinet.

I find out what he was up to when, as I’m pouring batter onto the stovetop skillet, a steaming mug is placed beside me.

“It’s herbal,” is all he says before taking his place at the island again.

I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not…

Okay, so I shuck a few tears discreetly as I flip the first batch. What’s it to you?

It’s just that,Itake care of people. People don’t take care of me. And when Nathan asked what kind of tea I like best so that he could “stock up for next time,” I absolutelydid not expect him to follow through. He has nothing in his pantry, and yet…

“My dad wants me to work for his company,” I say, lifting a pancake from the skillet onto a plate before reaching for the ladle to work some new batter into a circle on the piping surface. “He said that if I work for him, my hours will bebetter. But better just means that, since he’s the CEO, he has control over them. He can decide when I work, how long I work… I justknowthat means my schedule will revolve around all the time he and my mom need me at home.”

“You don’t want that.”

“No.”

The simple words I’ve never allowedmyselfto speak slip past my subconscious. In five simple words, Nathan Harding hasbusted open my psyche, and if I don’t catch it quick, it’s going to start running down his kitchen countertop like the pancake batter I just dripped onto the skillet.

“But I don’t even know what else to do. My long-term job is only through, like, February. I have a degree in psychology, and no concrete plans to use it. Dad already has a fast-tracked summer intensive to get me into the company so that it ‘doesn’t appear as nepotism,’ and then what? I’m twenty-five, living every aspect of my life for my mom and dad?”

Sizzling fills the silence, condensation rising from our breakfast to fog the space between us so that I can’t quite see him pondering and he can’t quite see me coming to the precipice of a mental breakdown.

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