Page 177 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

It would be so easy to tempt me back to bed if suspicion—confusion—wasn’t sitting like a rock at the bottom of my stomach. I’m tired and not thinking clearly. That has to be because this is just too familiar.And extremely odd.

While she’s happily humming, not in time with the song at all, under the bright lights of the kitchen, I try to figure out how to approach without startling her. I’m not sure how to make my presence known otherwise. I move from the shadows and grip the back of a dining room chair. “Hi.”

Whipping her gaze to the side, she finds me in the dim lights, and joy fills her eyes. “Hi there, sleepyhead. Thought you’d never wake up.”

“Most people are sleeping at four thirty in the morning.” I hate how serious I sound, cautious as if she’s a snake ready to strike. Innocent before proven guilty, I remind myself. “What are you doing?”

“Making tacos.” Her tone is lighthearted as if this is perfectly normal. “Since you didn’t have tortillas, I’m using lettuce wraps and calling it taco fusion.” Pondering that thought, she adds, “Maybe they should be taco wraps?”

“That works.”

She browns the ground beef as I take in the scene before me.

The island is covered with containers and the knives and utensils she’s been using to cook. A part of an onion is chopped on a cutting board, and diced tomatoes fill a bowl. Cheddar cheese is grated on a plate, and leaves of lettuce are drying on paper towels. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long,” she replies, trading the spatula for the knife on the cutting board. After a few chops, she lowers it as she comes closer. “I like to think I can cook better than I do. I’m a work in progress.” It’s the first I get of the full view of her. Legs that haven’t seen the sun for a while dip out from under the hem of the shirt. They’re toned, shapely, and I have visions of how they looked wrapped around me that make me hard again. She says, “No kiss for the chef?”

I kiss her, wishing I was kissing her like earlier in the night. But trust has diminished, and I don’t deal well with lying despite my dick’s wishes. She licks her lips and asks, “Hungry? I’m starved.” Dicing the rest of the onion, she says, “I don’t know if you realize, but we missed dinner.”

“I didn’t.”

“Neither did I until my growling stomach woke me up.”

“Do you cook much?”

She sets the knife down to tend to the skillet, not letting me stop her one bit. Clicking it off, she says, “It’s done. Now we eat.” So easily distracting . . . but is it on purpose?

Moving to the other side of the island, I say, “I don’t.”

“You don’t what?” Handing me a plate, she adds, “Help yourself seems rude since it’s your food. But yeah, help yourself or I can make you a plate?”

I fucking hate that my stomach growls, my traitorous body making it difficult to stay on track. I have to. This conversation is long overdue.

“One or two tacos?” she asks, holding up the lettuce.

“Two.”Yeah. Yeah.I know. I’m such a guy who’s easily pleased.Sex. Food. Money.I’m that asshole. Seeing her take such care in putting the toppings on each leaf of lettuce has me softening the accusations in my head.Why am I mad?

She’s never told me where she lives. Technically, she hasn’t therefore lied.I think. Yet . . .this doesn’t sit right with me.

Why is she hiding something so basic as where she lives?

I stare at her, trying to figure out my angle, but then my gaze dips to the taco buffet. The best approach is direct, kind, and on a full belly. But this is so incredibly confusing.

My gut has never led me wrong, but I’m starting to think I’m just hungry.

Carrying her plate, she kisses my bicep when she passes. So much sweetness in the gesture that I hate to ruin the mood. I watch as she settles on the couch and starts to eat. I’m blowing this out of proportion. It has to be a coincidence—the music and food, cooking at odd hours.

I don’t let people into my life this easily. Once I got to know Juni, her intentions were pure. Innocence coated her every move. She looked at me for a friend, and I was happy to oblige. Well, after we realized the inevitable. The universe gave us signs. Did we read them all wrong?

There’s only one way to find out . . . right after I finish a taco. I wipe my mouth with a napkin, and say, “It’s really good. Thank you for making them.”

She leans forward with pride filling her eyes as she rubs my knee. “My pleasure.”

I finish one taco and toy with the other casually . . . as nonchalant as I can be without this coming on like an attack. If given the opportunity, I believe she’ll have a perfectly good reason for not telling me. I can’t think of one off the top of my head, but it is five in the morning. I say, “I usually wake up at this time to fit in a workout.”

Nodding, she swallows a bite, and then says, “I don’t love working out. I’ll do it when I have to. It’s a necessary evil.”

“I like it. Guess we’re different that way.”

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