Page 32 of The Contract

“I don’t like having people in my place.”

“Oh.”

I squirm uncomfortably. Does he want me to leave? I can’t tell. He just starts chopping vegetables.

“What are you making?”

“Omelets.”

“Do you want help?”

“Are you a good cook?”

“No.”

“Then you should just stay out of the way. The coffee’s ready though.”

Relieved to have something to do, I go to look for a mug. I’m behind him. In his kitchen with him. It’s a weird mixture of distance and intimacy. When I can’t find the mugs, he comes to help me. I want him to touch me, but he doesn’t. He gets out two large, dark gray mugs and sets them on the counter.

“Do you want me to leave?” I ask.

He looks angry, threatening. “No. You can’t leave.”

“I just feel like …” I cross my arms. “Like you don’t want me here.”

I’m not sure what I’m seeing in his eyes until he swallows hard and says, “I do want you here. This … I’m not good at this. It’s hard.”

I instantly relax. It’s vulnerability I see in his eyes. I’ve never seen it in him before, so I didn’t recognize it. He’s struggling.

I’m not usually a warm person myself, but my hand seems to have a mind of its own as it reaches out and covers his. He jumps a little. He almost pulls away. Then his hand turns, his palm meeting mine. He stares at our hands almost in confusion. He grips mine like he’s testing it.

I let him explore it. When he pulls away, I let him go. He swallows hard again. He’s frowning.

And I thoughtIhad trouble with human interaction.

He pours coffee into the mugs. I’m not surprised when he drinks his black, and he apparently anticipates me as well because he gets out the cream and sugar without me having to ask.

Somehow, Dante multitasks well enough to have toast ready at the same time as my omelet. It makes me strangely happy when he slides it to me. I think it’s the nicest thing anyone has ever made for me.

“Oh fuck,” I mutter around a mouthful.

“Good?”

“It’s fuckin’ killer.”

He smiles, obviously pleased. He’s cooking his own now. He sips his coffee while he fiddles with the heat on the stove. God, he’s attractive.

“What?” he asks when he notices me watching him.

I admit, “It’s just weird to me, being attracted to a man.”

“It doesn’t seem to bother you though. Some people freak out.”

“Other men you’ve been with?” The question comes out of fucking nowhere and so does my irritation.

He flips his omelet and studies me. He doesn’t press me on the question, but that almost makes it worse. He’s thinkingabout it, like he’s figuring out what it means. But even I don’t know what it means, and I want to move on from it.

“I need to go back to my place later. I’ll have to change. I have work tonight.”

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