Chapter Seven
PAISLEY
Russell wanted to know how I slept? Answering that question required lying.
Not that it was a big deal, but lying was a sore spot for me lately.
I wasn't about to tell him that I'd had a restless night of sleep because I could hardly stop thinking about him. He’d crowded my dreams, and I woke up aroused. Soooo freaking annoying.
“Fine,” I sort of squeaked. “The bed’s comfortable.”
Oh, Jesus. I was commenting on the bed.
“I know it's not a great situation for me to be there. We work together, and maybe it's weird for us to be roommates or whatever. I'll talk to your mom and make sure she doesn't think it's your responsibility. If you could just give me a little time to find another place, I’m sure it won’t take too long.” Now, there was another lie. I’d been looking since I’d landed in Willow Brook. Arriving at the tail end of the tourist season meant most places were already booked. I’d also learned many of them closed once the tourists left.
The silence following that felt loaded. Although it was hard for it to feel more loaded than the space inside this truck.
The air felt the way it did before a storm when it was heavy with electricity.
Any second now, lightning would sizzle through the air with a loud crack of thunder to follow.
Maybe that would relieve the tension, although I doubted it.
I felt Russell's eyes on me when he glanced sideways as he slowed to turn onto the highway. My head turned on its own. The moment I collided with his gaze, it felt like a flame running up a fuse. I looked away quickly.
“It's really not necessary,” he said. “We have an entire floor between us. I'm sure we can find a way to get along. We did eat pizza together last night without arguing.” His laugh was dry.
I stared out the window. It was funny but not really.
“We did,” I finally said. When I looked back in his direction, his eyes were trained on the road again, and I was relieved.
Eye contact with Russell was dangerous for my hormones.
“I'll keep an eye out to see if any rentals open.
If something comes along, I'll take it. In the meantime, I'll stay put.”
I crossed my fingers where they sat in my lap and took a deep breath.
“Are you crossing your fingers?” he asked with a teasing lilt.
I whipped my gaze sideways, colliding with his eyes. I felt the flare of heat in my cheeks and shrugged. “Maybe I was. You're obviously used to having your own space. It’s just—” I paused abruptly, gathering my thoughts. “We’ve already had some issues at work. I don't want to make things worse.”
I didn't know how to read into his gaze. The look there was inscrutable and dark. He simply nodded. A few minutes later, we were back at Willow Brook Fire & Rescue, and I practically ran into the station, relieved to have other people around.
After work that evening, I went to the grocery store and got a few things.
I was a notoriously bad cook. My poor mother tried to teach me, but it didn’t help much.
I liked good food as much as anyone. I just didn't seem to have the instinct for how to make it.
I could handle the basics, but prepared foods were a godsend for me.
I didn't realize how tightly I was gripping the steering wheel when I drove down the driveway to my shared house.
I hit a little bump and had to slow down and force myself to loosen my grip.
I was worried Russell was going to be home, and I was really hoping he wouldn't. I was so attuned to his presence that I knew, even with an entire floor between us, there would be that subtle vibration of awareness humming through me.
I let out a sigh of relief when his truck was not in the gravel parking area.
I hustled inside and put away my groceries and started to make macaroni and cheese.
I had just set a pot of water on the stove when I heard the sound of tires on the gravel.
My pulse sped up in anticipation. I tried, oh how I tried, to stay calm and cool inside.
A minute later, he walked into the kitchen.
His eyes landed on me. “Hey there, what are you making?”
“Macaroni and cheese.” His gaze bounced from me to the pot on the stove and then to the box.
“Out of a box?” he prompted, bringing his eyes back to mine.
I felt my cheeks get hot because apparently, I just got hot whenever I was around him. I nodded. “Yeah. Is there a problem with that?” My tone sounded snappy.
“There’s not a problem, but homemade mac and cheese is definitely way better.”
He set some grocery bags down on the counter, and I watched in silence as he unloaded actual food. Aside from a few boxes of pasta, everything else was fresh. “Do you like to cook?” he asked after he finished putting everything away.
I was still stuck in place. When I realized that, I quickly stirred the pot of water. I hadn’t even added the macaroni yet. Dear God. This man had reduced me to stirring water.
“I'm not that good at it,” I finally said. I didn't see any sense in lying.
Russell blinked at me like he wasn't sure what I had said. “What do you mean you're not good at it?”
“I'm not good at cooking,” I ground out. “That's why I make things out of the box. I get what I expect, and I can’t really screw it up.”
His brows hitched up. He definitely looked doubtful. “I suppose so,” he said slowly. “Well, if you don't mind, I'm gonna make an actual meal.”
I reached for the box. “This is an actual meal.”
His lips twitched. “Sure, but homemade is better,” he offered with a wink.
“Like I said, I'm not so good at cooking.” I felt sheepish and annoyed. But annoyed was an almost constant state of being around Russell. I didn’t even like considering the fact my annoyance was tangled up in my arousal.
Just now, my belly was tingling as the heat bloomed through my body, and my pulse was galloping along faster than an excited pony.
“If you're in the mood for mac and cheese, I can make a homemade batch right now,” he offered. “I can whip it up in about twenty minutes, and then it’ll need time to bake.”
I wanted to say no, I really did, but that felt rude. The man just offered to make me homemade mac and cheese, and I had to work with him. This was an excellent example of why it was such a bad idea for us to share space. “I'm not asking you to make me dinner,” I mumbled.
“I know you're not asking. I offered.” When he turned to look at me, I saw that familiar annoyance flashing in his eyes.
Sometimes, it felt like we were cymbals clanging against each other—clash, clash, clash—and I just wanted to relieve all that tension. I knew one surefire away to do it, but that was insane.
I finally shrugged. “If you'd like.”
Russell leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He leveled his gaze with mine again, replying, “I offered, and I’m cooking anyway. I have all the stuff to make it, so why don't we just do that?”
“We?” I questioned, my tone too sharp.
“Yes, that would be you and me. That's we,” he explained patiently.
“Okay. Can I help?” I was feeling like a curmudgeon at this point. I also worried I was walking into a conversational trap.
“Sure, why don't you grate the cheese and boil water?” He gestured to the pot of water I had already put on the stove.
I realized I hadn't even turned the burner on yet. “I can handle that.” I returned the box of prepared mac and cheese to the cabinet and turned on the burner.
He pulled out a cheese grater, setting it on the counter beside a giant block of cheese. Another moment later, he handed me a bowl. “You can shred it in there.” He started to turn away but stopped and looked back at me. “Were you going to put a lid on the water?”
“It boils without it,” I said, thinking I was stating the obvious.
Russell rolled his eyes. “It boils a lot faster with a lid.” He got a lid out and plunked it down on top of the pot.
I was feeling even more snappish now. Annoyance rose inside me like a tide. It seemed to come in waves with him. “You know, I didn't ask you to make this.”
“I know, I know,” he said.
I recalled my mother trying to get me up to speed in the kitchen and often reminding me that I didn't pay attention to things I didn't like to do. The truth was, I didn't like to cook, and I always felt out of place in the kitchen.
“How much cheese should I grate?” I asked after I had opened it and rolled down the wrapping.
“About half that block.”
I eyed the giant block of sharp cheddar cheese. “Half?”
Russell's eyes slid to mine. When his lips curled into a slow grin, my belly executed a joyous flip. “Yes, half. When I make mac and cheese, it needs a lot of cheese. No sense in skimping on it. It's the main ingredient.”
I got to work grating the cheese, watching curiously as he got out another pan and started melting butter in it.
Then he added flour and whisked it. I'd never watched anyone make homemade cheese sauce.
Within minutes, he had added cream and then the cheese.
He even added some spices. By that point, I had lost track of what he was doing.
I sat down on the stool at the kitchen counter and decided to wait. He didn't seem to need my help.
After Russell assembled the macaroni and cheese in a baking pan, he sprinkled more cheese on top along with some breadcrumbs. He had assigned me the task of turning on the oven to heat it. Looking at the pan as he slid it in, I asked, “You don't just eat it? Everything in the pan is cooked.”
Russell closed the oven door and set the timer before turning to face me.
When he hooked a hand in his pocket, that subtle motion elicited the equivalent of an engine revving in my body.
My pulse, which ran fast no matter what when I was near him, kicked up its pace even more.
Because he put his hand in his pocket, drawing my eyes to the subtle flex of his forearm. Good Lord. This was ridiculous.
“No, I don't just eat it,” he said slowly. “You need to bake it. It makes everything blend better. Plus, then we get the crispy on top. I'll have to make my crispy mac and cheese for you.”
“Crispy mac and cheese? What's the difference?”
“I don't put it in a baking dish like that. I spread it across a cookie sheet. Everything bakes thin and crispy. It’s tasty, especially if you're a fan of slightly burnt cheese.”
“Wow. I never thought of that.”
He chuckled, slipping his hand out of his pocket. Turning, he crossed to the refrigerator and opened it. “Want anything to drink? I have beer.”
“I don't love beer,” I said when he glanced over his shoulder.
“Do you like beer?” he pressed.
“Actually, no. I don't even think I like it.” My cheeks were getting hot, and I didn't even know why.
He pulled out a beer for himself. “You don't mind if I have one, do you?”
I shook my head. “Of course not.”
“I saw that you got some wine. You could have that.” He gestured to the bottle of wine on the counter.
I grabbed on to that suggestion like it was a lifeline and I was drowning. I was drowning—in heat and lust. “Good idea.” I slipped off the stool and trotted across the kitchen, fetching the bottle of wine.
Before I could even ask, he pointed at a cabinet beside the refrigerator. “Glasses are in there.”
I pulled out a glass and filled it with wine, thinking I needed to find a way to disappear from the kitchen.
But that seemed rude. He had just made dinner for me.
I had grated the cheese and preheated the oven, but my contribution felt small.
That pan of mac and cheese looked delicious, and I was beyond hungry.
I just didn't know how long I could handle spending time with him.
I took a big gulp of wine, hoping it would take the edge off my nerves, which felt stripped raw around him. I was hypersensitive to every tiny thing he did. I jumped when the phone rang. Russell glanced my way as he stood from where he'd taken a seat at the table and went to answer it.
“Hello?” He listened, nodding. “Yeah, she's right here.” Turning, he held out the phone.
“For me?” I asked.
“Says he's your brother.”
I took a breath and hoped the alarm ringing like a gong inside my body wasn’t obvious on my face.