Page 46 of Purring for Her Lion
“You know,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual, “you don’t have to do all this. The renovations, the cooking, the whatever it is we’re doing with the sleeping arrangements.”
His hands pause momentarily. “I know.”
“I just mean—you must have better things to do than babysit a chaotic human and her pet dragon.” I’m rambling now, but I can’t seem to stop. “It’s been two months of this weird shift-work parenting thing, and you haven’t had a single day to yourself. Don’t you want to, I don’t know, go on a vacation? Or a date? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve me falling asleep in random places and you having to carry me to bed?”
He turns to face me fully now, those golden eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“No,” he says simply.
“No...you don’t want to go on vacation? Or no, you don’t want to go on dates?” I’m stalling, and we both know it.
“No, I don’t have better things to do.” He returns to his cooking, adding the vegetables to the pan where they sizzle loudly. “And no, I don’t want to go on vacation or dates.”
I swallow hard, watching his back as he stirs the food. “I just...I feel guilty. Like I’m taking advantage of you. Of your time and your space and your everything.”
The kitchen fills with the delicious aroma of garlic and ginger and whatever magical spice blend he’s using. Nugget settles at my feet, his warmth seeping through my socks as he curls into a surprisingly compact ball for a creature his size.
“We’re having beef kaldereta,” Roarke says instead of addressing my concerns, plating the rice he’s apparently also made without my noticing. “Your recipe. You left the cookbook open to that page last week.”
I blink at the abrupt change of subject. “You made kaldereta? From a Filipino cookbook?”
“Fromyouramended cookbook.” He sets two plates on the table, then adds a third on the floor for Nugget, who immediately perks up. “More bay leaf. Less tomato paste.”
He’s made kaldereta. My version of it. One of my comfort dishes that reminded me of family get-togethers since most of my aunties almost always bring their own version.
He noticed the cookbook, interpreted it as a craving rather than just me haphazardly leaving things open, and then he made it. With my written-in adjustments.
“You made this with my recipe,” I sputter, though I’m already picking up my spoon.
“Try it first,” he says, taking his seat across from me. “I might have missed a step or two.”
I take a bite, knowing that the universe would collapse before he missed anything of the sort.
I brace myself, but am still unprepared. The flavors that hit my tongue are perfect. The beef is tender, falling apart at the slightest pressure. The sauce is rich and complex, with just the right balance of sour and savory. It’s my version of my lola’s kaldereta, but somehow…even more.
“Well?” he prompts, watching me with those intense eyes.
“It’s terrible,” I lie, taking another large bite. “Absolutely awful. The worst kaldereta I’ve ever had. I might need to eat all of it just to spare you the embarrassment.” I heap perfectly prepared basmati rice onto my plate and drown it in kaldereta.
The corner of his mouth twitches again. “Noted.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being Nugget’s appreciative rumbles as he devours his portion. I find myself sneaking glances at Roarke, at the easy way he sits in my kitchen, as if he belongs here. As if we’ve been doing this for years instead of months.
And maybe that’s what scares me. How easy it’s been. How natural it feels. How quickly I’ve grown accustomed to his presence in my life, in my home, in my daily routine. How much I’ve come to depend on him, to expect him, to want him around.
“I’m serious though,” I say finally, setting down my fork. “I appreciate everything you’ve done—the renovations, taking care of Nugget, letting me crash at your place. But I feel like I’m, I don’t know, hijacking your life. This can’t be what you signed up for when you agreed to help with a dragon egg.”
Roarke regards me steadily, his expression unreadable. “What makes you think I’m not exactly where I want to be?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to face. Because of course, Roarke goes where he wants to go. No on tells that man what to do anything.
My heart does that stupid fluttery thing that happens whenever he says something unexpectedly direct.
“Because nobody wants this much chaos in their life voluntarily,” I say, gesturing vaguely to myself, to Nugget, to the general disaster zone that is my existence. “Nobody signs up for sleep-deprived humans and teething dragons and possible midnight fire drills.”
“I did,” he says, his voice low and certain. “I already told you. I’m territorial about you. Has sleep deprivation affected your memory?”
His tone is dead serious, but I’ve gotten used to his dry humor.
