Page 23 of Breakaway to You

A small laugh escaped me. “What am I going to do with you?”

He gave me a cheeky grin. “Make dinner with me.”

The way his smooth voice said those four words had me second-guessing my decision to stay. The thought of making dinner with him sounded meaningful, and I was worried my willpower to keep pushing the brakes between us was going to give out.

“Don’t you mean make dinnerforyou?” I pretended to be annoyed because it was better than showing him how his words had affected me. “You need to stay off your knee.”

“I can get set up in the kitchen with my leg propped up and then cut or stir or do whatever you need me to do,” he said.

He looked like an overly excited puppy, and who could say no to a puppy? Not me.

“Okay, fine,” I relented with a sigh, but it was all for show. I was just as excited about spending the evening together as he was. Which I was assuming was not my best choice, but I was doing it anyway. I could be strong and not get all swoony over a guy. Easy peasy.

Plus, neither of us wanted anything remotely close to a relationship, especially with each other. We were just two people who enjoyed each other’s company. Wasn’t that the definition of friends?

Yes, that’s what we were becoming. Friends. Nothing more. Friends had dinner together. I was feeling better about this whole dinner idea already.

That was, until he went to stand up from the couch and winced. I hurried to his side so I could help him walk into the kitchen, his arm thrown over my shoulders, and I found out how perfectly I fit under it. And if I had thought the blanket smelled good, having my arm around his waist and being pressed against his side was heavenly.

But I wasn’t going to think about that. I wasn’t going to think about how we seemed to fit together perfectly, or how sigh-inducingly good he smelled, or that he’d made me laugh more in the few weeks I’d known him than in the couple years I’d dated my ex.

No. I would focus on dinner and making sure I didn’t burn anything. Because heaven knew I wasn’t that good of a cook. Unfortunately, Zeke was about to find that out too.

I got him settled on one of the stools at the counter, propping his left leg on the stool next to him.

Placing my hands on my hips and catching my breath from helping him walk (and not from him making me breathless), I said, “So what are we making?”

He gestured toward the fridge. “I think I have all the stuff to make chicken noodle soup.”

I nodded and headed toward the fridge. I shouldn’t have been so surprised at how his kitchen was a chef’s dream, featuring top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, custom cabinetry, and quartz countertops. It matched the modern but elegant entryway and open living room, with its smart home system to control lighting, temperature, and security.

And speaking of chefs, I wasn’t one. I’d never made homemade chicken noodle soup before, so he was going to have to tell me what to do. I was more of a chicken noodle soup from a can kind of girl. Or better yet, from a restaurant delivery.

Before opening the refrigerator, I spun back around to face him. “I probably should have told you that I’m not what some would call a chef,” I admitted, my words coming out slowly.

He stared back at me, the look on his face difficult to decipher. Was he amused? Or was that more of a surprised look? Maybe even happy?

“What?” I asked, curious to know what he was thinking and what that look on his face meant.

He closed his eyes briefly and cleared his throat. “Oh, um…” he stammered, slightly shaking his head as if to clear it.

I was even more confused now.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” he quickly answered. “Sorry. I would explain but you said no more flirting, and my answer might be interpreted that way.” The mischievous spark in his eyes told me he knew full well that I’d be itching to know what he had been thinking, which would get him around the no flirting rule.

I tilted my head and gave him an exasperated look. “Well, now you have to tell me.”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “Remember?” He held up his three fingers again. “Scouts honor.”

I threw my hands up in the air. “But you’re not even a scout,” I exclaimed.

That made him laugh. “If I tell you, will you count it as flirting and leave?”

I didn’t know why I cared so much about what he had been thinking earlier, but I did, and I was willing to let a flirty sentence or two slide. And let’s be honest—I secretly liked his flirting, but as his physical therapist, he couldn’t know that.

“No. This one won’t count.”

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