Page 55 of Restricted List

eighteen

Cole

“Holy shit. It smellsamazing in here, Cole,” Rory says, stepping into my apartment looking like she walked straight out of my fucking dreams.

She’s wearing a cream-colored sweater dress that hits above her knees, thigh-high brown suede boots, and a light brown faux fur vest.

She looks so fuckinggoodright now.

I’m trying to ignore Ari’s advice, but she’s gonna make it really goddamn hard when she’s over here looking like that.

I walk over to meet her, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed. “I made dinner.”

“Why?” Rory asks, looking like she’s confused.

“I’m not going to have you come over in the evening and not have dinner for you, Starlight. I’d be a shitty host.”

She smiles at me. “Well, what did you make then?”

“Chicken Parmesan.”

“That’s my favorite!” she squeals.

As if I didn’t know that.

I may or may not have gone through the entire interview she did with my sister for her blog earlier this year to find that. Harlow asks everyone what their favorite food is, so that was easy to find.

But I dug deeper, reading through every part of the interview. When I saw Rory mention how much she likes Christmas offhandedly, I also may have gone a bit overboard in buying decorations today.

It looks like Christmas fucking vomited all over my apartment.

I clearly have no strength when it comes to Rory Fisher.

With everything I’ve done, this almost feels like a date.

But it’s not a date.

Certainly not a date.

I can’t have her.

It’s just two friends hanging out and eating dinner.

Nothing more.

“I can’t promise the food is the best,” I admit. “I’m not much of a cook, so the spaghetti came from a box, the sauce came from a jar, and the chicken came from the freezer.”

Rory laughs lightly, a smile still lighting up her beautiful features. “It’s the thought that counts, Sparrow. I’m sure it’ll be great.”

She struts past me, heading straight for the kitchen. I follow behind her, grabbing plates from the cabinet and dishing out two servings of chicken parmesan.

After I set our plates at my dining room table, I turn to her and ask, “What do you want to drink?”

“Water, please.”

“No alcohol tonight?” I chuckle, walking to my fridge.

“God, no. I feel like I just beat the hangover from Saturday night.”

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