Page 72 of Panther's Magpie
I look over my shoulder and smile. “Hey, how was your day?”
“Fine. Are you making dinner?”
Turning away from the pot, I study him. He says he’s fine, but his body language says otherwise. I wonder what happened. I want to ask, but I don’t.
“I am. I hope that’s okay.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “I don’t remember the last time someone made me a home-cooked meal in my place.”
He shouldn’t get too excited. I haven’t cooked much in my life. It’s a simple recipe I found online, but I think it came out all right.
“Well, then mark today on your calendar. It’s almost ready if you want to get cleaned up.”
I blow out a breath as he stomps down the hall. After grabbing the plates from the cabinet, I plate the lemon pepperchicken, asparagus, and rice. Panther comes out right as I set the plates on the table.
“This looks great. Thanks,” he says as he sits down.
I smile at him. “Don’t thank me yet. It’s my first time making it.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious,” he tells me.
For the first time since we started getting to know each other, we sit in awkward silence. It’s clear that he has something on his mind, and as badly as I want to ask, I won’t. I want him to open up to me without having to pry.
I look around the house and see the little touches that I added while he was gone. I knew it was a risk, but did I overstep that badly? Does he hate what I did? Did he even notice?
I look at him through my eyelashes as I move my food around the plate with my fork. His eyes are down, but he’s eating.
My insecurities come rushing forward.
Maybe I overstayed my welcome. Yeah, he told me he wanted me to stay here while he was gone, but maybe he was just saying what I wanted to hear and he didn’t mean it.
Maybe he was just being nice.
The sound of him placing his fork down on his plate has me looking up.
“Seriously, Maggie, this was delicious. Thank you.”
I beam at his compliment. I’m so happy it turned out good.
“You’re welcome.”
He frowns as he looks at my plate. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just not hungry. I kept trying things as I cooked to make sure it was tasting okay.”
He nods his head like that makes sense.
“Want to go sit on the porch with me?” he asks.
“Sure.”
Pushing the chair away from the table, I stand. As I reach for my plate, he leans forward and grabs it.
“Let me.”
“No, I can do it,” I insist.
“Please. You cooked, I’ll clean.”
