Page 83 of 1 Last Shot

And I’m okay with that, because, surprisingly enough, Kane’s made it more than obvious that this isn’t a short-term thing. So, I’ll give him whatever time he needs to open up, especially if they’re coming as random little tidbits while we cook dinner together.

I fill the rest of the time with my own chatter. Kane seems to like listening to me talk. Tonight is the first time we’re not on a timeline, and can actually relax and enjoy each other's company. I debate asking him if he wants to watch another episode of Rick and Morty—turns out I love the show, and I’ve been dying to lure him into an all-night marathon of it—but the oven timer chooses that moment to go off.

I practically bound off the couch, so eager to see the finished product of my cooking escapade that I almost don’t remember to grab oven mitts. I hear Kane's chuckle from behind me as I struggle to pull them on.

"Easy," he says, amusement coating his tone as he pulls open the oven. "I'm going to be very unhappy if you burn yourself."

"What on earth does unhappy Kane look like?" I wonder sarcastically as I lean down to pull the pan out and set it on the stovetop.

I'm so mesmerized by the sight of our cheesy, perfect meal, I don't realize Kane has stepped up behind me until his arms go around my waist. He tightens his grip and nuzzles into my neck, and his voice is quiet when he says, "It's getting harder and harder to remember."

Thatgets my attention. I want to turn my head and meet his eyes, to really see the full depth of how he feels, but his face is still tucked into my neck and his arms are holding me hostage where I stand.

Sensing he doesn't want to talk about it, I stop myself from turning in his arms to try to meet his eyes. Instead, I place my hand on his forearm where it's wrapped around my waist, and squeeze affectionately, just once. I'm dying to kiss him right now, to show him I feel the same way, but before I can twist in his arms to do that, the oven timer lets out another angry alarm.

It effectively shatters the heavy moment. I squeeze Kane's arm once more, then mumble awkwardly, "We should probably turn it off before it yells at us again."

I expect Kane to pull away immediately, to distance himself from any kind of serious conversation, but instead, he hesitates. His movements feel almost reluctant, the way he slowly unwraps his arms. But then he's pulling away and clicking the Off button on the stove, and that sensation ofsomething big just happenedevaporates.

"In the spirit of learning new recipes, want me to teach you how to make the spaghetti, too?" he asks.

It takes me a second to catch the teasing lilt in his voice, the emotional whiplash making me blink in confusion. Then his question registers and I'm turning to glare at him.

He merely holds his hands up in surrender and says, "You're the one who said you couldn't feed yourself." A smirk tugs at his lips. "I didn't want to assume boiling pasta was something you could handle."

Another glare, this time with feeling. "I liked you better when you didn't make jokes," I grumble at him. Then, realizing a glare and a growl aren't enough, I punch him in the shoulder. "Jerk," I mutter.

A deep, content laugh rumbles through his chest as he clutches his arm.

"No more self-defense lessons for you," he says with a chuckle. "Any more of those and I won't be able to laugh off your shots."

Pouring the spaghetti into the pot of boiling water, I grumble, "Fine, guess I'll just open myself up to more muggings then."

Once again, he sidles up to me without me realizing it. "Not a fucking chance, princess," he whispers, and presses a kiss under my ear.

A shiver runs through me at the words and the gesture, but I force myself to focus on the pasta instead of the increasingly attractive man behind me. Thankfully, I hear him start to set out plates and utensils at my little breakfast nook, leaving me to prepare the pasta in peace.

“By the way, set two extra place settings. My mom and dad are coming for dinner.”

There’s a pause, and then…

“WHAT?!”

Even I can’t hide my sheepishness when I turn to look at him. Poor guy is standing shell-shocked next to my little kitchenette, plate in hand, with big eyes and his jaw on the floor.

“What, what?” I ask dumbly.

That snaps him out of it enough to glare at me. “Don’t play with me. What do you mean your parents are coming over?”

I shrug. “They’re staying in the city tonight and they wanted to stop by to see how I’ve settled in. Instead of going out to dinner, I suggested they just come here instead.”

I canseethe moment the urge to flee hits him. I don’t even blame him, God knows it took me forever just to get him used tomycompany.

“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him hurriedly, wanting to give him an out so he doesn’t feel like I’ve trapped him. “I really did want to hang out with you tonight. But…” I swallow roughly as I work up the nerve to ask for the thing I’ve been thinking about for days. “But I’d like it if you did.”

His gaze snaps back to me, looking just as panicked as it did before. “Who are you going to tell them I am?”

I shrug again, forcing nonchalance into my answer. “My neighbor."

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