Page 54 of The Meaning Of You

“Nope.” I opened the fridge door and basked in the icy breath that shot out to meet me. “It’s not good for your body in the heat. Maybe later.”

Another groan. “Jesus fucking Christ. Has anyone ever told you you’re a bossy sonofabitch?”

I chuckled. “Once or twice.” I put a jug of cold water on a tray along with a container of carrot sticks and celery that I always kept on hand. I added glasses and plates, a tzatziki dip, some hummus, a bowl of air baked crackers, and a bunch of green grapes. I stared at the tray for a few seconds before going against my better judgement and adding a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

I carried the tray into the lounge and set it onto the coffee table.

Nick opened his eyes and considered the offering. “God almighty,” he grumbled, pushing himself up to take a better look. “You’re serious about all this health shit, aren’t you?”

I pointed to the cookies. “I bent the rules just for you.”

His mouth quirked. “There are rules?”

“There are always rules.” I poured two glasses of ice water and handed him one. Our fingers brushed and it absolutely did not send a shiver up my arm. “Remember the ex-boyfriends’ list of grievances discussion?”

Nick nodded.

“Well, let’s just say the issue of rules also featured on those lists.”

Nick barked out a laugh. “Do they extend to the bedroom?”

Heat burst over my cheeks. “I refuse to answer that since it’s none of your fucking business.”

A huge grin split his face. “Oh my god, they do, don’t they? Damn. We are definitely having that conversation at some point.”

My brows dipped. “In your dreams. And you don’t have to sound so delighted. It’s not funny.” I bit the end off a carrot stick and crunched angrily.

“Yeah, it kind of is.” He bypassed every single healthy item on the tray in favour of two chocolate chip cookies.

“You’ll regret that when you’re sixty.” I indicated the cookie heading for his mouth.

He waggled his brows and bit it in half. “The only thing I’ll regret—” He talked around the mouthful. “—is your harping on about it. Mmm.” He inspected the cookie in his hand. “These are pretty good.”

“My mother’s recipe.”

His eyes widened. “You made these?”

“Why? Do I look incapable of throwing a few ingredients together and putting them in an oven? It’s hardly rocket science.”

“I disagree,” he argued. “I can’t cook for shit, which you know, by the way.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, the sheer number of takeout containers in your house gave it away, along with how loudly you yelled at me for ordering those organic meals.”

His cheeks pinked and he reached for a third cookie. “I might owe you an apology for that. Turns out, they weren’t half bad.”

I smiled around a mouthful of celery. “High praise indeed. Feel free to have some carrots with that chocolate.”

He shot me a horrified look. “And we were getting along so nicely. Which begs the question of why make cookies if you don’t eat them?”

“I like to cook and Gazza likes to eat as long as it’s not too unhealthy for his diabetes. I swap out what I can to accommodate him,” I explained simply. “It’s a match made in heaven. Now, are you going to show me what’s in that box or not?”

He finished his cookie and sighed. “Fine. Get over here so we can both see the laptop.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” I grabbed my reading glasses and circled the coffee table to sit at his side, our thighs touching, the concentrated heat emanating from his body making my skin prickle.

He went still for a moment, long enough for me to wonder if he felt it too. That unmistakable crackle of interest. Maybe he did, because he shuffled sideways just enough to create a gap, then pulled a laptop from the box.

Turning to face me, he considered my glasses for a second, then reached back into the box to retrieve a pair of his own. When he slid them in place, I absolutely did not stare, because damn, if Nick Fisher without glasses was hot, Nick Fisher wearing a pair of black-rimmed readers made every cell in my ridiculous bibliophile soul giddy with pleasure.

---