Page 67 of The ABCs of You & Me

“Soph.” My name is only a whisper, but it snaps me out of whatever haze I’m in. The heady fog lifts rapidly, and I quickly look away.

“We should start on dinner.”

He doesn’t answer me right away, only smirks back. “We?” he asks.

“You?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Will you be a good friend and teach me something?” There’s no hunger in his eyes now.

“You wanna know how I learned?”

“Trial and error?” I suggest.

“I watched the Food Network endlessly. Keyword there, ‘watched.’”

“So, I can watch, but I can’t…” I know what I’m doing. I’m testing the waters. I’m seeing how some flirting feels for me and how he reacts. “Touch?”

“No touching unless I say so.”

I swallow and try not to react as chills race across my skin. The idea of not being allowed to do something unless I’m told, of not having to think about what to do, ofFostertelling me what I’m allowed to do is something I never expected to want. But fuck, right now, that’s all I want. I need to pull it together. I keep saying friend and then my imagination goes to very unsafe places.

“Okay.” I tamp down the desire that’s bubbling up. “I won’t touch unless you give me permission.”

He leads me back into the kitchen, and my head instantly clears. It’s not quite as Foster-y out here and I can think straight again.

Sitting on the lone stool at the peninsula, I do as I’m told and watch.

I watch Foster steam and then blend broccoli with parmesan, garlic, lemon, and olive oil. I watch him slice onions so quickly I keep one hand on my phone, ready to call 911 in case he chops off a finger. I watch as he flips those onions in a hot pan with oil and butter, his forearms distracting me. I watch him dump pasta into boiling water. I watch as he strains the pasta and stirs in the broccoli mixture before adding in a knob of the goat cheese then carefully adds in reserved pasta water. I watch as he twirls pasta onto a fork and brings it to my lips.

“Open,” he commands, and I do so without hesitation. He smiles as my lips close around the fork, leaning in a little more, gaze intense as he pulls the fork back. Bright flavors burst on my tongue, and as badly as I’d like to keep looking at his smile, my eyes close as I sink into the taste dancing across my taste buds. “Good?”

I nod.

“Tell me, sunshine. What do you taste?”

I swirl my tongue around and concentrate. “Lemon, garlic, and something sweet.”

“That’s the onions. What else?”

“I don’t know,” I open my eyes to find Foster leaning in close. “Broccoli, but tamed. The cheese is less…”

“Goat-y?”

“Is that the technical term?”

“I believe so.” He pulls back and starts arranging bowls and cutlery. “Have I convinced you?” I hear him, but I’m lost in his hands as he expertly plates the pasta. He has long fingers and the veins along the back of his hands shift as he works. “I’ll take that look as a yes.”

He definitely caught me staring. No doubt he knows what I’m thinking, although that doesn’t seem fair because I barely know what I’m thinking.

He’s not Gregory.

“Am I allowed to take the plates to the table?” I ask, slipping from the stool and rounding the counter before he can answer.

“You may,” he says, handing over the cutlery, his fingers brushing my skin as my fingers wrap around it.

At the table we eat quietly, sneaking looks at one another and smiling. This feels like a first date. But looks instead of words aren’t us. We talk; we always talk.You don’t tell him everything, though.He’ll think you’re pathetic if you tell him.

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