Page 26 of The Boyfriend Boycott
“Starving? You just ate.” I remind her of the ten-piece chicken nuggets and fries she slammed back as we left the mall earlier.
“That was almost two hours ago. And now I’m hungry,” she says.
“Okay, okay. Fair enough.” I do a quick shoulder check and flick on my signal, turning onto the road that leads through Heartwood and toward the campground. We drive through town once again, and the sight of the Urban Ember sign makes me bristle as we pass by.
When we reach the familiar long winding road, I keep driving until we come to my driveway, and I hang a left. I could make that turn with my eyes closed.
“What are we doing here? Aren’t you taking me home?” Spencer asks. She knows where we are. She’s been to my place before. I admit that I have ulterior motives for bringing her back here. If she gets to have her multi-phase plan, I get to have my own—my multi-phase plan to win over Spencer Sinclair.
“I’m going to make you dinner.” My statement is firm, no room for debate. I don’t know exactly when I decided that I wanted to win her affection beyond just a casual hook-up. It was sometime between the moment I flung open the curtain and saw her standing there in that gorgeous dress, and the moment she let out a soft snore in the passenger seat. Spencer is both an unattainable goddess and so very human that I have an insatiable need to protect her.
“I have food back at the camper,” she protests.
“Cup O’Noodles isn’t a proper dinner.” I put the car in park on the drive and get out before Spencer can say anything else. She doesn’t put up more of a fight. Instead, she gets out after me and follows me up to the front door.
I hesitate a moment as I open it and step back to let her inside. The moment is reminiscent of the first night that Spencer stayed here. The one that has lingered with me, making me wish it had gone differently. Wish I hadn’t waited to kiss her then. The ghost of missed sexual opportunities past, still haunting me. Maybe had I not hesitated, things between Spencer and I couldbe different, and I wonder if I missed a crucial window to evade the friend zone.
Minutes later, Spencer is seated at my kitchen island, sipping on a glass of red wine as I prepare one of my all-time favourite dishes for her—a chicken sausage orzo with spinach and sundried tomatoes. The room fills with the warm fragrance of garlic as I add it to the sausage cooking in the pan.
“You’re such a natural in the kitchen,” Spencer says. I wipe my hands off on the towel I’ve thrown over my shoulder, place a lid on the pan, and turn back towards her. I shrug.
“I do own a restaurant and bar,” I say with a chuckle. “And I grew up cooking for my brothers. Had to learn at a young age. There isn’t much in town in the way of take-out, so I made do with what I could find at the grocery store,” I explain. Her shoulders slump slightly.
“All I had growing up was instant noodles,” she admits. “Not just instant noodles, but easy stuff. Things I could throw in the oven on my own when my mom wasn’t home, which was often.”
Her words grab at my heart, thinking about her alone, making herself a sad frozen meal. The fact that she had to fend for herself so young.
“Do you want to help me? I’ll show you some things,” I offer, though I say it somewhat selfishly, wanting to give her a reason to come around to the other side of the island, wanting to be close to her. To not have this barrier between us.
“Okay. But I have to tell you, I really have no idea what I’m doing.” She rounds the kitchen counter, sweeping her crimson waves up into a ponytail as she nears me. I gesture to the onion I have set out on the cutting board.
“We can start here. Ever diced an onion?”
Spencer shakes her head, her brows knitting together. I hand her the end of the knife, but as she takes it from me, I hold my hand over hers, guiding it over the onion that I’ve alreadyroughly chopped in half. “It’s easiest if you cut it in half first, and then just make small slices.”
She nods, and I remove my hand from hers, watching her follow my instructions.
“I feel like such an idiot that I don’t know how to do this,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.
“You’re not an idiot, Spencer. Far from it.”
“I mean, I don’t have a university degree or anything. Isn’t this what they teach you in university?”
“No, you have to go back for a master’s degree in chopping onions,” I deadpan, earning myself a laugh from Spencer that warms the kitchen more than my cooking ever could. She throws her head back when she does it, and it rests on the soft spot between my shoulder and my peck where I’m standing behind her.My heart quickens, thundering against my ribs.
“Careful, watch.” I turn her attention back to the knife she’s holding. “Don’t cut yourself.”
She goes quiet again and continues cutting it like I showed her. The only sound she makes is a sniffle, though the fragrance isn’t particularly strong.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Someone’s cutting onions in here.” She gives me a wry smile that doesn’t quite reach her watery eyes.
“Boo. Bad joke,” I say with a playful nudge of her arm. I move towards the stove again, adding it to the pan with the fragrant garlic, and drizzling some more oil over it.
“I like how you do that.”
“What?”
