Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Jay
Liv
I’ve got a surprise for you when you get home x
A surprise. I gnaw at the inside of my lip.
With Liv, that could mean anything. I’m quickly learning that she’s spontaneous and also regularly needs my help in situations. She’s almost a carbon copy of Hudson in that sense, but thankfully, she’s much prettier to look at.
Jay
No date tonight?
Liv
Tonight is all about you, roomie x
That sentence should be illegal. Then again, I doubt that notion would stop Liv from using it anyway.
By the time I reach the apartment, the smell of smoke—not food—hits me first as I push open the door.
“Liv?” I call out, trying not to sound alarmed.
“In here!” she singsongs.
I step into the kitchen and stop dead. The counter looks like a food bomb went off—onions, sauce, and something that might once have been garlic bread now resembling charcoal.
There’s a pot boiling over on the stove, steam fogging up the windows to the left, and she’s standing in the middle of it all, barefoot, hair in a messy knot, a wooden spoon in one hand and absolute fear on her face.
“W-what happened?”
She waves a spatula like it might explain everything. “I was cooking. Or trying to. Apparently, it really is a skill you have to learn, and one I am yet to master.”
“Okay,” I say, stepping closer to assess the damage, and my glasses immediately mist over from all the hot air in here. Removing them, I try to clear them and hope for the best when I put them back on. “I thought you knew you couldn’t cook, didn’t we cover this after you moved in?”
“I can do hard things,” she says, placing a hand on her hip. That fire in her is something that I’ve seen before, only less so since she’s lived in Oregon. I’m glad to see it’s still there somewhere.
I raise my hands, surrendering to her. “I have no doubt about that, only your cooking skills, Liv.”
She sighs, looking at the ruined food. “For the record, this was supposed to be dinner. You were getting Italian, homemade. I wanted to thank you for rescuing me from that date.”
“Homemade, huh?” I glance at the blackened pan that resembles what once was pizza.
She glares. “I’m serious.”
“And I appreciate the thought,” I say, biting back a smile. “But maybe next time, we start with something that doesn’t involve open flames.”
She huffs, folding her arms, stepping around the counter now. “You’re very smug for someone who’s about to eat cereal for dinner.”
“I told you, I like cereal.”
She tries to hide her smile but fails miserably; it shines out of her like pure sunshine. The sight makes my breath hold.
There’s tomato sauce on her cheek. Smoke curls out of the oven.
She keeps talking, words tumbling fast—something about pasta, recipes, and a near-death encounter with boiling water, but I can’t focus because I finally notice what she’s wearing—gray cotton hanging loose around her shoulders, familiar logo glaring at me.
I drag a hand across my mouth, trying not to stare as she rambles. “Is that…? Are you wearing my shirt?”
“Yeah, I managed to spill sauce all down mine, and this was closest without leaving the kitchen unattended.”
See, she’s talking, but my mind isn’t absorbing anything she’s saying. “I’m sorry, Liv, but I can’t hear a word you’re saying when you look like that.”
She stops, brushing her hair from her face. “Like what?” she asks, a little divot appearing between her brows.
Cute as hell, my brain thinks, but thankfully, my mouth says, “Wearing my shirt. Can’t you take it off so I can focus and we can clear up this mess?”
Her mouth curves. “You’re sure?”
Before I can answer, she grabs the hem and pulls it over her head, the cotton sliding free to reveal soft lace covering her breasts and barely there shorts that do nothing to help my sanity.
“Fuuuuck me,” I groan, snapping my gaze to the ceiling.
“What?” she purrs, her voice the definition of innocence. “You told me to take it off.”
Christ. I will the air back into my lungs. “Olivia.”
“Yes?” There’s that tone again. Sugarcoated mischief is what she is, and it threads through me like a live wire. I can hear the smile in it before I look. I shouldn’t look. But of course I do.
She’s close enough now that I can smell her—vanilla, char-grilled garlic bread, it’s a unique combination for sure. But then she also just smells like her: apples and sweetness. My brain short-circuits trying to decide which sense to give in to first.
“Why do you live to torture me?” I manage, the words coming out rougher than intended.
She tilts her head, eyes gleaming, the corner of her mouth curving up like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Because it’s so much fun.”
Adjusting my glasses, I pray that they fog up so I’m not tempted to look everywhere. Every muscle in my body pulls tight, a mix of want and restraint, because if I take one more step, there’s no pretending this is harmless. Not with the way she’s looking at me. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
She laughs, and the sound brushes over me like static. “Then at least you’ll die entertained.”
I reach out blindly, plucking the shirt up and tossing it toward her. “Put it back on before I forget how to be a decent person.”
She catches the material with ease and thankfully covers herself again. “Spoilsport.”
I sigh. “For the record, I meant take it off in the bedroom, I thought that was implied.”
“Assuming only makes an ass out of you…”
“Not you, then?”
When I look at her again, I’m struck with the thought that I’m truly not sure which is worse, her in my shirt or out of it.
“I’m not ashamed of my body, so I’m not the ass here.”
I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. “You have a talent for raising my blood pressure.”
“Hm, likewise,” she says with so much interest. I try incredibly hard not to react to it. Instead, I busy my itching hands and pick up a cloth to begin clearing up the sauce on the counter.
“You know, there are easier ways to thank someone than setting the kitchen on fire.”
“I know that now,” she scoffs, but her chin lifts. She wanted to do something for me, and it backfired, and somehow that makes her twice as endearing.
I don’t know why I do it, but the streak of sauce on her cheek is calling for me to wipe it away, so I do, dragging the pad of my thumb slowly across it.
Her eyes track the movement with rapt attention.
The world narrows to the warmth of her skin beneath me and the faint tremor that runs through her when I pull my hand back.
“Uh, thanks,” she murmurs, her voice not much more than a breath.
The confidence she wielded so effortlessly a minute ago folds inward, and it’s replaced by that same glimmer of something else I’ve seen in her before.
Only now, I recognize it as doubt. That familiar part of me wants to scoop her up and beg her to tell me who hurt her, but I don’t, not yet.
I clear my throat, adjusting my glasses and stepping back to reclaim some distance I’m not sure I want, but I know she needs. “Anytime.”
I pick the cloth back up and drain the pasta that’s boiled to within an inch of its life. Liv moves alongside me, putting the charcoaled food in the trash and cleaning the flour. When I pick up the pan with the sauce, I wince a little at the burned marinara I’m guessing she was trying to make.
“It’s bad, isn’t it.”
“We might have to buy another pan.”
“I’ll be buying the pan, not you.”
I don’t argue with her because I know she’ll come out on top; something about her tells me she always would. But I also want to make sure she knows I don’t expect her to.
“Then let me order dinner,” I argue.
“Not a chance, dinner is on me. It’s the least I can do.”
“Olivia.”
“Jay, I almost just burned down your kitchen. Let’s call it what it is and accept that this is now a thank-you and an apology dinner. I hope you like a side of guilt with your Mexican food.”
This time, I don’t argue, just hold her gaze and smile. “Yes, ma’am.”