Chapter Fifteen #2
I look up at him from my position on the ground.
God, he’s huge. I try to ignore that because size doesn’t intimidate me at all.
But he makes me look tiny in front of him.
The thought makes me go hot all over. I’ll have to set some time aside to analyze that reaction.
That time isn’t now, when he’s wearing that hideous apron and staring at me like he’s planning to eat me instead.
“What are we having?” I ask before my mind could reach a point of no return.
He blinks, looking startled. “Uh… Pasta. I’m not a bad cook, but I am very limited in my talents,” he confesses.
Good thing I’m not here for that set of talents of his. “Pasta works.” I nod, especially because it’ll be ready quickly, and we can still make it on schedule.
He smiles widely. Closed mouth, but a dimple popping up. Mickey licks my hand, vying for my attention.
“Perfect. It was too late to change plans anyway,” he says over his shoulder, walking deeper into the house.
Now that I have a minute to look at my surroundings, I see I’m in a large living room.
His place is a loft-style apartment with a large kitchen in the corner.
Enormous windows on one side of the wall.
There’s a brown leather couch a little distance from me that’s pointing at a giant television.
Every surface has small knick-knacks, like—oh god, are those snow globes? Why does he have a dozen?
Despite the weird choices, his place is so him. Comfortable, slightly unhinged, but aesthetically pleasing. Lived in.
I give Mickey a final scratch and follow Nicholas near the kitchen.
“Beer?” he asks when I sit on one of the high-top chairs facing him.
I nod, and he grabs two. He hands me one, taking a large swig from his bottle.
His Adam’s apple moves when he swallows.
Why does he have such a nice neck? I mean, they’re generally a pleasant-looking anatomical region, but his is outrageously pretty.
Long, adorned with his five o’clock shadow.
The sharp jaw just makes it so prominent.
“You don’t like beer?” his voice brings me back to the land of the living.
I gulp some. “It’s great,” I say, voice coming out hoarse.
“Good, this’ll be done in a few minutes. Why were you driving so slow anyway?” he asks.
“I’m a slow driver,” I lie. It’s better than admitting the real reason. For his sake, of course.
“Hmm,” he says and continues ladling the pasta. It would get all mushy if he keeps doing that. Not that I have much knowledge of cooking, or any to be precise. But you don’t have to be an expert to know that.
Still, I keep my mouth shut and let him carry on. He stops after a few seconds and comes to stand across the counter I’m leaning on.
“I’ve never really cooked for a date before, I hope today’s not the day I find out it’s a no-go,” he laughs shyly.
I wave him off. “Always a good thing to try all the new things on casual dates,” I say, setting the boundary.
His face falls for a fraction of a second before going back to normal. He laughs awkwardly to cover it up. “You’ve already judged me, so it won’t change anything anyway,” he says. Then he turns to bother the pasta some more.
Something very close to disappointment flows through me, but it’s easy to ignore. It needed to be done. I don’t want him to come back a month later and complain that I’m not paying him enough attention.
“How did you learn to cook?” I ask, changing the topic and the mood that had taken a sudden nosedive.
“Necessity mostly. Matt and I lived together for a few years after school. And he almost burned the apartment down enough times that I finally banned him from the kitchen. Someone had to keep us fed.”
I smile. “You’d have gone bankrupt with the amount of food you two eat,” I comment. I saw them guzzle down almost the entire tray of lasagna at Oliver’s yesterday.
He narrows his eyes at me. Oh, shit. Was that offensive? Do I care if it was? Sadly enough, I do.
“I mean, you have to if you want to maintain that muscle mass. I bet you could bench that couch,” I point to the living room.
I’m embarrassed by what this man has me doing.
I really should have sent one of those thousand texts and canceled this.
Even the one about being so tired that I want to cry was better than being nice to avoid hurting his feelings.
He preens at the compliment, the dork. No signs of offense on that face. “You’re such a dork,” I shake my head.
He laughs. “Oh god, have I broken you? That was almost a compliment coming from you. You’re losing your touch, Elliot.”
I’m well aware of that, but my face still heats up. It’s obviously the lack of sleep again. My mind needs the rest to be mean. “Focus on that pasta pulp you’re making, Nicholas,” I say. There. I’ve still got it.
He looks at the pan, and his eyes go wide like he’s surprised he’d been aggressively stirring the contents for the past several minutes. He switches off the flame.
“Dinner’s done,” he announces like he’s on an old-timey cooking show.
Well, as long as what follows dinner doesn’t fade to black like other old-timey shows, I don’t mind.