Page 31 of Someone to Have
“It’s not my fault you stress cook.”
“I don’t stress cook.” Okay, I might, but I’m not admitting it to my smart-ass nephew. Cooking relaxes me. So what? “I do it because right now it’s my job to provide healthy meals for you.”
“It’s not yourjob. I can make my own food.” He glares at me. “I like taking care of myself.”
His defensiveness makes my gut clench. My sister probably didn’t prioritize eating healthy, at least in the recent past, and I don’t want him to think I’m passing judgment on his mom.
“If you can’t find anything you want to eat, grab a twenty out of my wallet.” I toss it on the kitchen counter. “I know how much is in there right now, and I’m going to expect change.”
“Bruh. I’m not going to steal your dumb money.”
“Bruh.My money’s smart because I made it myself. I’m just telling you the facts because I would have given myself a five-finger discount when Iwas your age.”
“Gross.” He visibly shudders. “Why are you talking about fingering?”
I choke out a laugh, out of practice with how casually inappropriate teenage boys can be. “Get your mind out of the gutter and take a shower. I’m going to put a plate of food together and check on Taylor.”
His expression turns serious. “Do you think she skipped dinner because of her eye?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “But Toby wasn’t upset when I mentioned it to him, so I’m not sure why she’d want to hide it from her family. Maybe she really is sick.”
“She’s super nice,” he says in a low voice, almost like he’s talking to himself.
“Yeah, she is,” I agree. And beautiful and sweet. She also smells like heaven. I should leave the food at her door like I did with the cookies. I don’t plan to do that, though. Because I’m an idiot.
I heat up the leftovers, cut off a piece of the crusty French bread I bought yesterday at the bakery, fold a napkin around a brownie and head across the hall. I hear noise from inside her apartment after I knock, but she doesn’t come to the door.
Alarm shoots across my belly like a comet in the sky.
“Tinkerbell.” I pound on the door. “I need to see the whites of your eyes. Proof of life and all that.”
There’s a moment of silence, and I can tell she’s standing on the other side of the door. I sense her, which is ridiculous, but I like it. I like this connection we have, even though it isn’t smart for either of us.
“I’m fine,” comes the muffled reply. She doesn’t sound fine.
“Then open the door. I brought dinner.”
Another long pause. “You can leave it in the hall.”
“Nope. I promised your dad I’d check on you. He’s worried.”
It’s trivial as lies go, but the doorknob turns. She glares at me through the crack. Does she look sick? Not exactly. But she looks something—ruffled, upset. Whatever itis, I don’t like it.
“My dad isn’t worried,” she says. “I’m sure he barely noticed my absence, other than when it came to cleaning up after dinner.”
“I noticed. Rhett noticed. He thinks you skipped Sunday supper because of your eye. I didn’t know it was possible for the kid to feel genuine remorse, but he seems to in your case.”
“He’s a good kid,” she says quietly.
“Let me in and I’ll feed you.” My voice is just as soft, like I’m trying to reassure a scared woodland creature.
She clearly wants to close the door in my face, but I think she might actually relent and let me in. Her eyes track down to the plate of food, and I work to hide a smile as I can practically see the gears turning in her brain.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Chicken marsala. And if the lasagna made you want to marry me, this one…” My eyebrow waggle is rewarded with a laugh that spills over me like sunshine.
Damn my reaction to her. Right now, I want to be bathed in her glow in ways that would make my Tinkerbell blush.
