Page 17 of Touch Me

With an eye roll, he washes his hands and stalks back over to the island.

“Can you measure out two cups of water and set it to boil on the stove?”

He squints his eyes at the stove. I’m not sure if he thinks it has directions written on it or something, but he doesn’t move. “I can measure the water, but I’ve never turned on the stove.”

I guess when you have money you don’t need to know this stuff. “Okay, I can do that. Grab another cutting board and you can slice the chicken.”

He stands still, eyes on the vegetables in front of me and a slight twitch on his lips.

He rubs his hand over his hair and scratches the back of his neck. “How about lesson one is just observation? I can watch you and take notes.”

I raise an eyebrow and shrug. “Fine.” The thought of his eyes, watching my every move awakens a kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach. And yes that’s really what they’re called. I’m a journalist... accuracy is tenet.

He watches in silence, his eyes flicking to my face every so often. I tamp down my nerves, not loving the feeling that I’m performing.

I guess he wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t good at conversing.

I guess I’ll talk then.

“The first thing I did when I got to college and had access to a kitchen was teach myself to cook. My mom never cooked, so my sister and I would do the best we could with what we could afford, but that was usually macaroni and cheese or ramen noodles. Once I had a job on campus, I slowly started buying cookware and utensils–one at a time–and watched cooking shows online. Once you know the basics, you can pretty much make anything you want. As long as you can follow a recipe.”

“But you don’t have a recipe right now.”

“Oh, I’ve made this a thousand times. You can vary the meats and vegetables, but the base is all the same. Sesame oil, olive oil, ginger, garlic, onions, and some cayenne if you like spice.” I plate the meal and go to the fridge for drinks. He takes the plates and heads to the dining room.

Grabbing a bottle of white wine, I turn and ask, “Water or wine?”

He stops at my question, but doesn’t turn toward me. “Wine is good.”

I pour two glasses and sit across from him at the table.

He looks down at the food. “This looks great, thank you.” Uncomfortable or not, Jace has manners. His eyes never meet mine, but it’s an acknowledgment all the same.

I smile. “You’re welcome.”

We eat in silence. Scraping forks and chewing the only sounds. Why he thinks silence is less awkward than talking is beyond me. But I’m not going to push him.

Instead, I enjoy the silence, basking in the oranges and pinks dotting the horizon from the setting sun. Damn, we should have eaten on the terrace. At least then I could’ve made conversation about the weather or the view. But he continues to eat with his back to the windows. I thought the wine might loosen him up a little bit, lowering his inhibitions. Not so much. Dinner is over quickly with no conversation to interrupt the meal. He gathers the plates and thanks me again for cooking. I follow him to the kitchen and start running the sink for dishes.

“I can do that.” He grabs a dish rag out of a drawer. “You cooked, let me clean up.”

“I can help.” I squeeze between his body and the island and put my hand out for the rag. His eye twitches and he grabs a drying towel out of the same drawer. “It will go quicker with both of us.”

His jaw ticks, the annoyance clear on his face, but he nods. I fill the sink with soap and water and wash the plates, handing them to him for drying. We continue the task in silence. When I hand him the skillet, our hands graze. He immediately jerks his hand back, and the pan clambers to the floor.

“I’m so sorry, I thought you had the handle.” I say in a rush as I bend to pick up the pan.

Before I can even stand up, he stalks out of the room. Standing stunned in the kitchen, I hear a door slam down the hall.

What the hell just happened? I don't understand why he's so damn jumpy all the time. It has to be more than conversation making him uncomfortable, more than having someone else in his space. I've been here less than a day and he's jerked away from me twice. Something is definitely wrong.

Now I understand why Jess is so worried.

I start noting the instances in my head. He’s adamant about keeping his photography private. Not just out of publications, but he didn’t even want me to know he’s the photographer. Ok, I guess that isn’tthatunusual. Some artists are reclusive and the fruits of their labor are purely for their own enjoyment. We’ll put a pin in that one for now.

He’s obviously no conversational wizard. I already knew that. He doesn’t like talking for talking’s sake. But he isn’t rude and answers direct questions. He opened up without prompting when he was trying to convince me to stay.

So, what’s with the jerking away as if I singed his hand when we merely grazed? Is he that nervous around women? Well, at least I can be confident I won’t have to watch a parade of women flit in and out. Not that it should bother me. He can date. Heshoulddate. If anyone should date, it’s him. He needs to get out of this place and find a nice girl...

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