Page 150 of We Can't Be Friends

I cough, patting my chest.

“I’m talking about eating you o—”

“Yeah, I got that.” And boy, do I want that. Cal hasn’t shaved in a few days. There is a dusting of hair along his jaws and cheeks. From this distance, I can see that the minuscule hairs are a shade darker than the hair on his head. And I’m dying to know they would tickle my hands, stimulate the skin between the apex of my thighs. I groan, more at myself than him. “You are irksome. You know that?”

“And you are—” He fumbles over his words.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“You could say that,” Cal responds smugly.

I walked into that one. And usually, I’m the one with jokes.

“Show me the recipe.”

CALLUM

“Hand me the oregano?”

“Which one is that?” Chloe jokes, trying to get a rise out of me, knowing fully that the spice bottle is in front of her face.

“Use your newfound love for reading and read the label.”

She mimics me, grabbing the spice and sliding it across the butcher block counter to me. “There ya go.”

I’m standing over a food processor, pushing down the sauce stuck to the sides with a rubber spatula. We combined parsley,lemon juice, olive oil, and several spices before blending them, creating the best smell—next to her—I’ve ever smelled in my life.

“Thank you,” a gratitude comes from her.

After following Chloe into the kitchen, ingredients were everywhere, as if the fridge was broken or our kitchen was turned into a grocery store. She admitted to trying to make empanadas, getting her mom’s recipe early this afternoon, for dinner tonight.

No one has made me dinner outside of my dad and grandparents. I know they always say it’s the thought that counts, but I never understood the meaning till now.

I unscrew the top of the spice and add three shakes worth before returning to stirring and blending the chimichurri. “Come here,” I request, beckoning her with the curl of my fingers.

Chloe scoots closer, pressing one hip into the counter to face me.

Taking the wooden spoon from beside the sauce bowl, I dip it in, getting enough for her to try. Putting one hand under the spoon in case it drips, I bring it to her lips. “Try this.”

Chloe opens her mouth—pillowy lips that I want to kiss again and again—eyes staring up at me through hooded lids. I place the tip of the spoon between her lips. She closes around the spoon. Holding her gray eyes hostage, I await her thoughts.

Removing the spoon from her mouth when she releases her tight squeeze on it, my gaze fixates on the tip of her tongue sneaking out of her mouth, licking her lips.

“Could use less oregano,” she teases.

Playfully, I nudge her shoulder. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m kidding. It tastes just like Mom’s.” Her smile is genuine and raw, my favorite one. Her nose scrunches up. “It’s perfect. I’ve tried to make it once before and it was terrible. I added way too much red pepper that it was way too hot to eat. I bet there are scorch marks down my throat from the burning I withstood.”

“I bet it was still good.”

“No. Seriously, it was bad.” She shakes her head, sliding onto the counter. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“My dad.”

“I inherited my terrible cooking ability from my dad. Did yours always cook?”

“My grandparents, his parents, cooked together. It was a family affair, especially with the farm. Everything was farm to table—”

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