Page 33 of Glitter Rose
“For giving me a heart attack.” I take a bite of the apple, watching her over the crisp flesh. Tart sweetness explodes on my tongue. Not the dried shit we ration at Iron Gate. Another reason she should come with me. “You could’ve died out there.”
“What do you want?”
What do I want? To get back to Iron Gate. To report to Gavin. To forget the way her skin feels under my fingers. To stop thinking about what her lips would taste like.
“Dinner.” I finish the apple. “Like I said.”
Relief and something like disappointment cross her face. “You’re still healing.”
“And you’re still bossy.” I grab a cutting board. “What needs chopping?”
She hesitates, then points to a pile of zucchini. “Those. For the stir fry.”
We fall into rhythm, moving around each other in the kitchen like we’ve done it a hundred times. She stirs something that smells incredible while I finish slicing. When I’m done, I slide the cutting board toward her.
“Perfect. Now, we need…” She whips around, reaching for a jar on a high shelf, stretching on tiptoes. Her fingers brush the bottom of it, not quite reaching.
Without thinking, I step behind her, my chest against her back, and easily grab the jar.
But I don’t shy away.
For one suspended moment, we’re frozen like that—her back against my chest, my arm extended above hers. I can feel her breathing, the slight catch when she realizes I’m not moving.
“Here,” I say, my voice rough even to my own ears.
She turns within the cage of my arms, her face tilted up to mine. This close, I can make out flecks of gold in her green eyes, the smudge of flour on her cheekbone, the perfect bow of her upper lip.
“Thanks,” she whispers, not taking the jar.
My gaze drops to her mouth. Her lips part slightly. Would she taste like the strawberries outside? Like the apple? Or something sweeter? I could kiss her. Lower my head those few tempting inches and find out.
She sways toward me, almost imperceptibly, and something in me snaps to attention. This is dangerous territory. Caring about people in this world is a liability.
A weakness.
I set the jar on the counter. “You missed a spot.” I tap my own cheekbone, indicating a small leaf on hers.
She blinks and swipes at her face with the back of her hand. “Did I get it?”
“No.” I reach out, thumb brushing her skin. So soft. “There.”
She stares at me, then abruptly retreats to the stove. “I should, um, I should wash up before dinner. Do you mind finishing?”
“Go ahead.” I keep my voice neutral. “I got it.”
She nods, not looking at me, and flees the kitchen. I watch her go, then turn my attention to the simmering pan. The zucchini pieces need stirring. A simple task to focus on instead of the lingering sensation of her skin under my thumb.
I turn the jar over in my other hand. Honey. Expensive shit, amber-gold and thick like molten sunshine. The one she adds to the porridge.
“Imported from Italy,” I read off the label.
Some fancy vineyard in Tuscany, probably run by bees with their own trust funds. I set the jar down, running my finger around its rim.
This penthouse is a perfect bubble, preserved like an insect in amber. Paris has created her own universe up here, complete with imaginary friends and real food and soft beds.
And I’m about to shatter it.
The stir fry sizzles. I give it a quick toss, adding salt from a crystal shaker.
