Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Theo
After we got home from grocery shopping, we put the food away, plopped on the couch, put on our comfort show, and passed out.
Garlic simmering in tomato sauce stirs me from my slumber. Peering across the way, I notice Wren isn’t where I last saw her. Music hums from the kitchen, and I smile to myself.
Home feels fuller now that she’s here; I can’t explain it. I always hated the silence, and it’s certainly less quiet now. Sitting up, I stretch my arms, and my elbow cracks.
Wren cackles and hollers “Old!” from the kitchen.
“Says the woman who can’t type without her wrists cracking.”
My lungs stop functioning when I see her with her hand on her hip. She changed into a pair of cotton shorts and paired them with a shirt that hugs her figure. She’s filled out since we first met, in the best way possible. She used to be too thin, and malnourished; now, she has curves I shouldn’t want to discover.
“Is that what I hope it is?” I ask while shutting down the thought.
With a wide grin, she bobs her head to the music. “It is.”
Wren dealt with a lot of shit growing up. Her parents weren’t there when she needed them. They were either high or absent. Wren’s dad isn’t nearly as bad as her mom, and one good thing I will say about him is that he taught his daughter how to make a killer lasagna. Wren altered the recipe so she can eat it, and I don’t mind it at all. Her family always said that gluten-free pasta is too dry and breaks easily. I’ve never experienced that, at least not with her cooking.
“It smells amazing,” I moan while wafting the steam toward my nose.
“It should be done in a few minutes.”
I climb off the couch, and when Wren holds out the spoon, I grab it and mix the contents in the pot.
I don’t stop myself from watching her walk over to the fridge to get the ricotta and mozzarella cheese. You’d think I was watching a movie from the way I’m mesmerized. I can’t avert my gaze, and frankly, I don’t want to. The way she mixes the cheeses and seasonings together is a different kind of porn. If only she knew how sexy she is.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
My cheeks burn. “You have something on your nose,” I say.
Lies.
She wipes her nose and wiggles it. “Better?”
I sputter a laugh because now she does have something on her nose, ricotta, to be specific. “There.” I point and chuckle when she misses it. Placing the spoon down, I walk toward her, and with my thumb, I clean the cheese off her nose. “Much better.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I’m left struggling for air being this close to her again. It should be a crime for her to feel this soft. I move my free hand from her cheek to the base of her neck, and I swear her breath hitches, but her mouth doesn’t move. Warmth radiates from her chest, and as if my body has a mind of its own, I step closer.
Wren doesn’t back away like I expect her to. It’s only when the sauce boils over and sizzles against the stove that she does, and I’m left reaching.
“So,” she starts while removing the pot and wiping down the stovetop with a paper towel. “I was thinking about something but have been too nervous to ask.”
I clear my throat. “You have my attention,” I say while walking around the island toward her, trying to shake off whatever just happened.
With a shy chuckle, she flushes while reaching for a casserole dish. “I’m not sure if I should.”
“Well, now you have to because I’m curious.” I cross my arms over my chest and smirk. “Ask me.”
She bounces between her feet before giving up. “Porn.”
“What about it?” I ask, holding back my laughter.
“Do the women ever fake it?”
Oh, this is going to get interesting.
Without thinking, I say, “Not with me.”
“Really?” she responds with her brows raised. “Not once?”
“Nope.”
“Huh,” she says while placing some sauce on the bottom of the dish.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” She shrugs and presses her lips together.
I don’t say it, but I know why she’s asking. Wren mentioned years ago that she never experienced an orgasm during penetration, and most women don’t. I also think back to her recent confession of never having any orgasms—penetration or otherwise. She probably watches porn and wonders why it comes easily to those women. Most of them are overdramatic, but not all.
It took time for me to learn how to properly pleasure someone. Most men are selfish lovers, but I find my joy in giving rather than receiving.
“You haven’t watched any of my?—”
“Hell, no,” she responds as she layers the lasagna. “I shouldn’t have asked. My curiosity got the better of me.”
“You’re allowed to ask.” I drop my arms to my sides and turn the oven on. “You still haven’t—” She raises her hand to cut me off. “Okay, okay.”
Grabbing a spoon, I position myself next to her to assist. Our shoulders brush, and her natural honeysuckle scent fills my nose. We work in silence, chuckling when we bump into one another and making it a point to try and make each other smile.
With the lasagna in the oven, we start cleaning up. She turns the music louder, and we dance around the kitchen, singing and laughing until our middles are sore.
“Fantasy” by Mariah Carey comes on, and Wren quickly spins in tight circles and sings her heart out.
I stop in my tracks, admiring the woman who makes my house feel like home. When her attention lands back on me, I offer her a soft smile, and when she returns the favor, my heart swells.
The chorus starts, and with no time to react, she leaps into my arms and releases a happy exhale.
“Remember when you promised you would always take care of me?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I took care of myself for a while, and I think I did a pretty good job. Thank you for stepping in when I needed you the most.”
“I’ll always be there for you,” I tell her.
Our eyes lock, and it makes butterflies break out in my stomach. Without removing herself from my arms, she traces her fingertips along my jawline and slightly parts her lips.
I swallow past the lump in my throat as the idea of kissing her overwhelms me.
“You really are wonderful,” she murmurs.
“You’re breathtaking,” I say without thinking.
“I’m a mess.” She snickers. “But thank you.”
I’ve always pushed down any feelings I’ve had for her, not wanting to risk our friendship, but they always return. Now, with Wren in my home, with her in my arms, I’m powerless to stop them. This time, I don’t fear the repercussions because the way she looks at me makes me think she might feel the same, but she’s fighting it.
After Wren untangled herself, we piled our plates with cheesy noodles and made ourselves comfortable on the couch.
The food is steaming hot, but it doesn’t stop me from shoving a forkful in my mouth. “Fuck,” I moan, my eyes rolling into the back of my head. “You haven’t lost your touch.”
“Thank you,” she laughs softly.
“Really, this is incredible. I would kill to have a woman cook for me like this every day.”
“Well, lucky for you I’m here for a whole month.”
“Not long enough,” I remark before placing more food in my mouth.
“I’ll teach you everything I know.”
I watch her with a soft smile, happy to see her comfortable and relaxed. She doesn’t have to worry about glutening herself and getting sick. Those days are far behind her.
One of her curls frees itself from the hair clip, and my fingers itch to twirl it around. I sat so far away from her. What is my problem? I should have planted myself beside her so our knees could touch by “accident.”
She’s your best friend.
And yet. . . the way she looks at me with those sparkling eyes and gentle gleam, I dare to wonder, What if?
Without thinking too deeply on it, I stand and sit next to her. Her proximity makes me want to sigh in relief, and the blush on her cheeks sends my heart into a rampage.
We sit like that for a while longer, the lasagna forgotten. The moment stretches out between us, and for once, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence.
Because sometimes, silence says everything.