Page 107 of Darling Obsession

I don’t even call him Ed.

“You don’t have any actual tostadas,” she goes on, maybe misinterpreting my perplexed look. “But we can use taco shells.”She makes a hopeful face. “Do you like cilantro, though? Be honest.”

“Cilantro’s fine.”

“Oh, thank god. It’s kind of a key ingredient. Did you know some people can’t eat cilantro because it legit tastes like soap to them?”

“I’ve heard that.”

“It’s because of a genetic variant that affects some people’s olfactory sense. I learned that in culinary school. I’m much better at baking than I am cooking, but this dish is served cold, and it’s so delicious. It just takes a lot of chopping.” She lays a cutting board in front of me and holds out a chef’s knife. “Can you chop?”

I take the knife. “Can’t we just throw it all in a food processor?”

“Ugh, no. The Romas will turn to mush.” She piles a handful of ripe tomatoes in front of me. “I know I said I’m making you dinner, but you’ve heard that saying, ‘If you can lean, you can clean’?”

“Uh… sure.”

“Well, Mom always told me, ‘If you can look, you can cook.’ Dice them up small. After that, I’ve got cilantro for you to cut up. I’ll handle the red onions, so you don’t have to cry in front of a girl.” She grins at me.

Then she takes an onion to the island and starts cutting.

We chop for a minute in companionable silence, which is fucking weird, while I tell myself to relax. Let down my guard. I’m in my own damn house, in my kitchen.

It just feels like it’s been invaded by a sweet, sexy chef I never asked for.

A little voice in the back of my head warns,Don’t get used to it.

“So… you’re a two-shower-a-day guy,” she says.

Observant. I’m not sure how I feel about her making observations like that about me. Other than uncomfortable.

“Usually,” I mutter.Sometimes three.

“I guess you hate this,” she observes further. Presumably, referring to the disaster the counter is quickly becoming.

“It’s okay. As long as it gets cleaned up right after.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t say anything else as she takes that in.

I’ve never felt the need to justify my cleanliness and orderliness to a woman. But I’ve never lived with a woman.

I rarely even have them in my house.

Maybe that’s so I don’t have to justify, or explain. Normally, I don’t have people anywhere near my personal space unless they’re on my payroll.

I wonder how much of my house her friends saw.

“Your friends are… interesting.”

She considers that. “They are. But what makes you say so?”

“The conversation you were having when I got home. Something about me being a witch?”

She cringes. “You heard that?”

Her face says,What else did you hear?

“Don’t worry, I didn’t eavesdrop.”

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