Page 12 of Forsaken Vows

I had forgotten about the fire alarm. Him mentioning it brought the sound back.

I moved past him, turned off the burner, and grabbed the spoon from his hand.

“I thought your parents owned a restaurant,” I teased, smirking. Trying to turn lust into laughter. I was so wet between my thighs it was shameful.

He grunted, tossing the towel he’d been fanning the smoke with onto the counter. “Doesn’t mean I know how to cook.”

I giggled. “I can, call me Chef and you can be the busboy,” I said, nudging him with my hip. “Clean those pans. I’ll make us something edible after I use the bathroom.”

He nodded and stepped aside.

“There’s a towel and a toothbrush laid out in the bathroom,” he said. “Shower’s yours.”

“Thanks,” I said softly.

He didn’t look at me, just nodded again and turned toward the sink.

I left him in the kitchen. I stayed in the bathroom longer than necessary after I finished showering, my hands gripping the edge of the sink. My skin still felt warm from the water. My head was clearer.

I still wasn’t hurting about what I’d found out. Not like I thought I would.

I was angry but not hurt.

Maybe I expected it. Maybe I didn’t care.

I was more embarrassed about how I’d unraveled the night before in front of Sam than anything else.

The crying.

The rambling.

The stripping.

God.

I pressed my forehead to the mirror.

I exhaled. For the first time in a long time, I could hear my own thoughts without Mark’s wants, needs, or judgment crashing into them. I pushed away from the sink. Same had laid a big t-shirt out for me. When I put it on it hugged my frame but dropped to me knee’s.

When I came out of the bathroom, Sam was sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.

His eyes lifted when he heard me, lingering a little longer than they should have—but he didn’t say anything.

I moved around him like it was mine. Pulled ingredients from the fridge. Cracked eggs. Sliced vegetables. My body knew what to do, even if my brain was still frazzled from the night before.

He watched me cook. Not just casually. He laid down his phone and watched me like I was TV.

It was unnerving.

The feeling it caused was visceral. Like I was slowly being pulled apart from the inside and handed back to myself in pieces. But I was in my element. I could function without crawling out of my own skin.

When I finished, I made him a plate and set it in front of him without a word.

I didn’t expect a thank you, Mark never gave me one. I didn’t even look at him. I just turned to walk away, trying to hold on to the calm I’d found while cooking now that I wasn’t.

Before I could, he reached out and grabbed my hand, He turned it over like he was getting ready to read it, then hebrought it to his mouth, and placed a kiss to my palm. His lips were so soft.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said.

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