Page 30 of Counting Quarters

“Don't get that look. I only burnt the buns. Everything else is perfectly edible.”

“I didn't say anything.”

He had changed out of his uniform into his usual plain black tee and dark wash jeans. I bit my lip as I took in his casual appearance. I hoped I didn't look overzealous in my short sundress.

Kyle didn't seem to mind as his eyes slowly raked down my body when he thought I wasn't looking.

“Have a seat.”

I gestured toward the dining table he had hauled up here a couple of weeks ago. He politely obliged, and the whole thing felt awkward to me. Maybe I made a mistake doing this.

What is it about this man that makes me so insecure?

I took an extra minute in the kitchen to give myself a small pep talk and remember that this was all no big deal. We ate dinner together most nights, anyway.

“Sure you do, but this display looks a little Desperate Housewives, don't you think?” I turned and saw Hailey sitting on the counter, surveying her nails.

I hadn't realized I was whispering my thoughts aloud. I ignored her, silently willing her out of the apartment, but she stubbornly remained in her spot.

When I brought our plates to the table, Kyle cleared his throat.

“All jokes aside, it looks really good.”

“It's chicken parmesan. I mean, obviously. But in case you didn't know.” I was a rambling idiot.

I heard Hailey click her tongue from the kitchen and resisted the urge to throw my knife in there.

Kyle lightly chuckled. “I gathered that much.”

An uncomfortable silence blanketed us as we began eating our meal. The scraping of our utensils against the plates was the only noise filling the air until he looked up at me and smiled sheepishly.

“Why is this so awkward?” he asked.

I let out a breath and shook my head. “I have no idea. But I'm glad you feel it, too.”

“Probably because you're into him,” Hailey mumbled from somewhere in the living room. I refused to look over and give her the attention she was seeking.

“I should have you cook dinner more often. This makes my cooking taste like boxed dinners.”

“No, I love your cooking.”

He snickered and shoved another forkful into his mouth, his eyes roaming around the space.

“This place is coming along. I'm glad we were able to find you a couch and TV. I don't know how you survived so long without them.”

My heart fell into my stomach as I realized that the look he kept giving me—the one he usually wore on the rare occasion he came up here and cast his gaze across my space—was pity.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Try to take care of me. I know I didn’t come here with much, but I’m not a charity case.”

I leaned back in my chair and stubbornly crossed my arms over my chest. I could deal with a lot from him, but I wasn’t going to accept his sympathy.

His brows furrowed, eyes taking in the defensive shift in my demeanor. “I never said you were a charity case.”

“Sometimes, it seems like you think I need saving.” I swiped at a speck of dust on my lap to avoid looking at him.

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