Page 17 of Until We're More
So I wouldn’t cry over my total failure of a day, I’d stopped by the grocery store, stocked up on junk food—the type Liam would never dare put in his body—and bought ingredients for dinner.
Over the past few months, I’d relied on takeout and pasta-in-a-box dinners, mostly using the stove in my Denver apartment for those times when I hadn’t done the dishes and had to hide the overflow. I’d always meant to learn how to cook healthier, more complex dinners, and figured there was no time like the present. I also wanted to thank Liam for letting me stay with him, to show him I cared about him—in a completely platonic way, naturally—and I needed to occupy my mind anyway. Win-win.
And I could really use a win.
I glanced from the recipe on my phone screen to the stove. I added the sliced zucchini and acorn squash to the chicken, sprinkled in the spices, and stirred everything around.
The brunette who’d been lucky enough to hear my joke about absorbing caffeine through my skin was the type of person who said,I didn’t come here to make friends, I came to win, and meant it. The kind who would make allies and later stab them in the back. Brad had split the team into two groups of ten and left me in charge of the one Ashlee, the only other female in a sea of dudes, was in. At every turn she’d questioned me and smirked when I used too manyums in my answers. Which basically got the other employees riled up and asking questions of their own I didn’t exactly know how to answer. When Brad had come to check on our group, it’d been disorganized chaos. He’d frowned and taken control, and I’d sat in the corner licking my wounds.
The second I’d arrived back at Liam’s, I’d abandoned the uncomfortable bra I was never wearing again no matter how much extra oomph it gave my overall look and changed into my pajamas. For a moment or two I’d wondered if I should pull on jeans and attempt to look nice when Liam came home. But he’d seen me in my jammies more times than I could count, and after wearing binding clothes all day, my limbs craved freedom.
This tank top didn’t do a very good job of hiding the fact that I didn’t have a bra on, though, so I was going to have to go grab one of my comfier, less padded bras as soon as I added the rice to the water, which was just about to boil.
Maybe the boss persona fails me, but I’m nailing this cooking thing.
As if the universe heard that and wanted to prove me wrong, grease splattered me, right as the pot not only boiled but spewed water onto the stove top.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I grabbed a paper towel, and in spite of being careful about not wiping the actual burner, heat flared through my palm. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”
I twisted to the sink and poured cold water on my right hand while using the other to turn down the burner. Since my left hand wasn’t used to being in charge, it took two tries to lower the temperature instead of raising it.
I dumped the measured-out rice in the pot of water that’d finally calmed down, and then lifted my hand to see if any blisters had formed.
The door swung open, and Liam stepped inside. He dropped his gym bag and surveyed the kitchen with arched eyebrows.
“I’m making dinner,” I said, protectively curling my fist against my chest.
“I see that. What happened to your hand?”
“I just burned it a little.”
He motioned with his fingers, as if I could simply hand it over, and I lowered my eyebrows.
“You want me to hand you my hand?”
“Yes,” he said, as if that’d made sense.
“It’s okay. I think.” I peeked at it. Sort of red, but I didn’t see any bubbles, which was good because injuries and blood made me squeamish. When it came to movies, I could tell myself it was fake, but real life was another story. Sometimes I had to look away from Liam’s fights. I tried to filter the gore by peeking through my fingers, another reason I needed them to be okay.
Liam gently uncurled my fingers and studied my palm. He guided it back under the stream of cool water. I was about to tell him I’d already done that, but something about the way he did it actually made it feel better.
“How’d work go?” he asked.
The oxygen leaked out of my lungs as his eyes met mine, and I licked my lips, trying to cover my reaction. “Are you asking because you think I need a distraction or because you’re psychic?”
“I guess that answers my question. The fact that you’re cooking hinted that something was up.”
“Hey, I cook. Sometimes.”
His skepticism showed in the press of his lips.
“You don’t know everything about me,” I said. Was dizziness setting in because of the way he dragged his thumb over my skin or from the heat cooking in the tiny kitchen caused?I’m going to say the heat. Definitely the heat.
“Ah, but I do.” He dragged the pad of his thumb over my palm again, and I had to cling that much harder to myit’s hot in hereexcuse. “New project means you’re upset. Otherwise you’d be on the couch reading, probably curled up with your cat.”
Fine. Maybe he knew most everything about me. Better than anyone else, at that. Man, I really should’ve curled up on the couch with George and a book. If only my spinning thoughts would’ve allowed for that. “I’m learning new skills,” I said, and then I sighed, figuring I might as well spit it out now, because there was no way I wouldn’t end up blabbering to him about it. “To make up for my failure to learn how to be a tough boss.”
He tilted his head. “One bad day doesn’t mean you’ve failed, Chels.”
