Page 72 of A Very Merry Enemy
The drive to his house feels both too long and too short. The sun has already set when I pull up next to his truck in the driveway. Smoke curls from the chimney, and every window glows warm.
I force myself out of the car and tuck my hands inside my pockets as I walk toward his house. The porch steps creak under my weight, and as I’m raising my hand to knock, the door swings open.
Lucas stands there with jeans low on his hips, and he has on a dark gray T-shirt that looks like it wants to be ripped straight off him. His eyes look impossibly bright tonight. His dark hair is messy and damp. He showered for me.
“You’re actually on time,” he says sarcastically, in mock surprise.
“Don’t get used to iteverhappening again. Next time, I’m going to purposely be an hour late.”
“Pfft. Your obsessive need to be on time won’t ever fucking allow it. Even after all this time. Guess some things don’t change, do they?” The corner of his mouth twitches as he steps aside. I notice how his eyes trail up to my hair as I walk past him.
A buttery garlic aroma makes my mouth water as I enter.
“What is that amazing smell?” I ask.
He closes the door. “Our dinner.”
“Our?”
“Wehave to eat something, don’t we? Mightas well do that before we bake,” he says as I move into the kitchen. “Unless you already ate.”
“I haven’t,” I mutter, noticing the wineglasses on the counter. One already has dark liquid in it. Lucas moves to the stove and stirs something.
“You cooked for me?” I ask, truly honored.
“Don’t sound so shocked about it.”
I pour a glass, spinning it around and taking a sip. The flavor touches my palate, and Lucas pulls two plates from the cabinet. I take in the small details of the house that I overlooked before, like the seat in the window that overlooks the woods. It’s a perfect reading nook.
He built everything the way we’d talked about.
I move farther into the kitchen as he plates our food.
“Lucas,” I say, but my voice comes out strangled.
“Relax. It’s just dinner.” But he won’t meet my eyes.
“Yeah? Who else have you cooked dinner for here?” I ask, lifting the glass to my lips and taking two big gulps.
He sets both plates at the breakfast nook. “Just you.”
I force myself to look away from him as he sits in front of me, and I slide onto the stool. “Chicken piccata with roasted veggies.”
“Yeah, like I said, this girl I used to be friends with taught me some things.”
I laugh. “The one who disappeared?”
“Yeah,” he says, handing me a fork and napkin. “But I think she might come back.”
“Really? Should I be worried?”
He smirks. “Probably. She had a thing for me. Rumor has it she still does.”
My cheeks heat, and I know my face is red as I cut into the chicken. No way I can respond to that, but luckily, the first bite is perfect. It’s tender, lemony, and buttery, exactly how we’d practiced.
“Wow,” I say. “That girl must’ve been one hell of a cook.”
“Still is.” He’s watching me.
