Chapter 24
Miranda
How the hell did I get here? When I woke up this morning, having Hayden cook me dinner was not on the agenda.
I peer at him as he scrubs his hands clean in my bathroom’s deep farmhouse sink.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles and veins of his forearms, and I can’t look away.
His eyes are on me as he walks out of the bathroom and passes me on his way to the kitchen.
Pointing awkwardly toward the bathroom, I step inside and wash my own hands, hoping on everything that it just looked like I was waiting for the sink.
The warm water feels good, and I spend longer than necessary, using the time to calm my nerves.
Hayden is in my house and getting ready to cook. In my kitchen.
When I join him, he’s already got items on the counter and is rummaging through my cabinets, likely looking for pots and pans. Instead of helping, I lean against the counter, fold my arms, and watch him with a lopsided grin on my face. I might as well enjoy the view while I have it.
“Looking for something in particular?”
“Pots and pans,” he says over his shoulder.
Without moving from my spot, I point at the pantry door. “Hanging on the wall in there or on the shelf just below. Plus, there’s more food in there, too, if that helps.”
I finally take a moment to look at the items he has sitting on the counter. Chicken breast. Fettuccini noodles. Butter. Cream. Garlic. He walks out carrying two pots and a container of parmesan cheese tucked under his arm.
“What are you making?” I demand.
The smile he flashes at me should be illegal. I feel it everywhere. It’s just a smile but combine that with the fact he’s in my kitchen, and I feel it all sorts of places.
“Chicken alfredo.”
Swallowing hard, I try to keep my mind from drifting to that night. When he revealed that he remembered everything about me. He remembers the first time we met, and even what my favorite food and ice cream are. And now he’s about to cook my favorite meal. For me.
“You know how to make that?” My words comes out in a low rasp before I once again swallow hard.
“Yup. Your mom’s recipe.”
And then he turns his back and gets started, leaving me to watch him work.
He carefully prepares the chicken before mixing the sauce and combining the ingredients.
Chicken alfredo isn’t difficult to make, but I’m picky and prefer my mom’s to any restaurant.
I try not to dwell on the possible reasons behind his knowing how to cook my exact favorite meal.
When he sets a pot of water on the largest burner and sets it to high, I give him a smug smile.
No broccoli. He raises one eyebrow before stalking closer and then stopping in front of me.
Even in my kitchen, he’s all cowboy charm, and it pisses me off that all I can think about is having his mouth on mine again.
“What’s that smug look about?” he asks with his brow quirked.
“Oh, nothing. Just watching you dominate in my kitchen.” My voice drips sarcasm even as I smile sweetly at him.
He laughs in surprise before stepping away and toward the fridge. “I’m glad you noticed how good I am in here. Just wait until you eat, then you’ll really be impressed.”
Crossing my arms, I part my lips to speak just as he opens the freezer and takes out a steamer pack of frozen broccoli. Dammit. It really is the exact recipe. Broccoli and all. I snap my mouth closed when his eyes meet mine, and the asshole winks at me.
“We’ll just see about that,” I say before I push off from the counter. “I’m going to go check on Sierra. You just keep dominating in here.”
My cheeks are heated, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
Or look at him. Walking out the front door, I do my best to pretend not to have a care in the world.
Like I’m not completely thrown off and flustered as he shows me yet another part of himself.
I don’t make it far before I run into Sierra.
I’m surprised when I look behind her and don’t see any horses in the paddocks.
I take another glance behind her before returning my gaze to hers.
“I put the horses in, like I did with Hayden the past few days. So, you don’t have to worry about it later.”
Color me surprised. And impressed. “Well, thanks! I might have to keep you around.”
Laughing, she falls into step beside me. “So, what’s for dinner? Spaghetti with sauce from the jar?”
A bubble of laughter escapes me. I never expected to thoroughly enjoy the company of a teenager, but she’s pretty damn amazing.
“Actually, he’s making chicken alfredo,” I respond in a tone dripping with surprise and skepticism.
“Oh, good! He’s made that before. It’s really good. He said he got the recipe from his friend’s mom because it’s her favorite. I think you’ll like it.”
There’s no simple word to describe the feelings surging through me at what she just said, but it feels dangerously close to the “L” word.
I tried to convince myself that he didn’t learn how to cook my favorite meal for me.
I tried to convince myself he wanted to make it for himself.
Or even for Sierra. I didn’t ask why. Or when.
I don’t want to know the answer. Not when I can’t have him.
“Oh, yeah? Well, we’d better get in there while it’s hot.”
Looping arms, we walk the path to my house and go inside.
It smells delicious, and I immediately regret this little contest we agreed to.
No man has ever cooked for me before. And as much as we’ve been pretending nothing has changed and we can be friends, knowing he, too, might be struggling with lingering feelings makes it damn near impossible for me to keep on pretending.