Chapter 13
Mari
Since working with Kas and his team, Isaac has developed some sort of resentment seeing me do things other than mope around the apartment. I should’ve known things were going downhill when he got mad at me for showering a couple of days ago because he was planning on showering too.
“Just don’t come here and heat up your shitty leftovers. Goddammit, Mari, you’ve ruined my night.” Isaac doesn’t look at me when he talks, his eyes latched onto some SFL highlights playing on the TV.
“Ruined your night? I can’t even eat in my own home.”
Isaac heaves out an impatient breath and looks over at me from his position on the sofa. “I didn’t say you couldn’t eat, I just don’t want to smell your leftovers. Make a sandwich or some shit.”
He turns back around, and I grip the metal handle of my spoon with enough force to prevent myself from launching it at the back of his blond head.
“You never had an issue with this before. I’ve been heating up Auntie’s food for the past eight years,” I say. “So tell me, what exactly is your issue, Isaac?”
“My issue? You prance around here like you own the place. You go to work, and you come back all sprawled out on the couch with your laptop.”
“That’s typically what a home is for,” I respond dryly.
“Stop saying this is your home. It’s not your home, it’s my home. I bought it, I own it. I could kick you out like that.” Isaac snaps his fingers on the final word. “If you shower or heat up your food here, I want you out.”
A tremor of panic settles in my stomach and I try my best to hide it on my face.
The home I created for us features the emerald-colored sofa he sits on that came out of my pocket. So did the mahogany coffee table he rests his dirty sneakers on. I painted the walls and carried the dining table and chairs four blocks so that we’d have something to share our meals on.
God, I was so naive to think that my last night here before going to Vegas would be painless.
I snatch my food out of the microwave before it dings, fetch my tote bag off the coat hook I thrifted, and yank open the front door.
“Babe! Where are you going?” Isaac asks.
I flash him a glare from the apartment door. “Out, you asshole.”
I throw myself down the steps before he can respond and storm across the parking lot until I’m safely in my car.
Isaac changes his tune whenever I leave after an argument, constantly flitting between hating me and wanting me back. I won’t be surprised if I receive a text in the next hour begging for my forgiveness or speculating that I’ve gone out to have sex with some guy.
The only comfort right now is the lukewarm container on my lap and the food inside that I’ve been looking forward to eating since I woke up from my nap thirty minutes ago. I eagerly unclip the lid and take one large spoonful of the stew. The bite never makes its way down my throat because the outside of the reheated food is boiling and the center of it is baltic.
“Oh, come on,” I garble through my mouthful. My throat grows tight when I force down the food and my nose begins to burn. “I hate it here.”
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and take a few deep breaths to restrain the tears.
The only thing that pulls me out of my sorrow is a ding from my personal phone. It’s a post notification from Kas—he’s uploaded to his story. It’s not quite a video of himself, but a screenshot of some running stats.
The time glaring from my phone reads 11:54 p.m.
Of course, the most unsociable guy ever goes running this late.
I glance between my container and Kas’s post. Then, with one final look up to the apartment, I pull up his contact.
Me: Hey
I mindlessly stir my stew and listen to the low drone of my shuffled playlist as I debate my options. Freya’s on vacation, so are Vi and Devon. It’s also way too late to go to Auntie’s place. My phone buzzes loudly on my dashboard.
Kas: ?
Kas: You good?
Me: Need a favor
His reply comes in the form of a call, which I scramble to answer.
“What’s up?” he asks, voice crackling as it connects to my car’s Bluetooth.
“Just ... shit.” The container lid falls off my lap and down the side of my seat. “Why did you call?” I ask.
“I prefer to get to the point,” he says matter-of-factly, and I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “Are you safe?” I don’t answer immediately. What am I doing?
“Yes, I’m safe. I just have a minor and slightly urgent emergency.”
“You don’t sound urgent.”
“Do you consider me heating up my leftovers at yours urgent?” I ask on a singular breath.
There’s a brief pause at the end of the line.
“Depends on how hungry you are.” His tone is still as blunt as ever. “I’ll send the address.”
It takes me exactly twenty minutes to get to Kas and Devon’s place on the wealthier side of town.
Their house stands out among the gravelly, terra-cotta-dominated builds on the street. The outdoor light illuminates shrubbery-covered bricks and a trellis beside the front door with colorful flowers weaved between its lattice panels. Honestly, it’s impressive. I would’ve pegged them both for minimalists: soulless exterior, blank slates, and monotonous color.
I stalk up to the front door and lift the heavy knocker. The wrought iron thumps loudly against the wood and it swings open no more than ten seconds later.
“Hello,” Kas mumbles.
His hair is damp and slicked back like he’s tried to tame it with his fingers before opening the door. My thought is confirmed when he does exactly that. It redirects my focus to his overdeveloped biceps from years of working out; I’ve admired them plenty, along with the rest of his body considering he waltzes around the gym in nothing but five-inch shorts every day.
Tonight, the muscles are still there, but they’re concealed by a graphic T-shirt with a video game character stretched tight across his chest. I clear my throat and politely draw my eyes to his face.
“Hi,” I reply hoarsely.
Kas bends slightly. “What happened?” he probes.
His eyes take in my tank top and sweatpants. I cross my arms over my chest, acutely aware of my lack of a bra and the bleach stain on the neckline.
“Oh, Isaac and I had a small disagreement. I didn’t want to bother anyone else this late, so I thought I’d bother you considering you were up and posting. Lucky you,” I say, patting the container under my arm.
Kas scans the entirety of me again. “Lucky me,” he replies slowly and clears his throat. “Freya not available?”
“Nobody is available. Devon and Vi are on their little biker road trip, remember? She gave you her suitcase.” I nod to Violet’s familiar giant teal suitcase in the foyer behind him. It’s his duty to bring it to their final destination in Vegas because it doesn’t fit on Devon’s bike. “And Freya decided to go on a wellness trip to Mexico.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I only found out today when she sent me a pic from the airport.”
“I see.” Kas watches me curiously with furrowed brows and a twist of his lips.
“I mean, I can go.” I point my thumb over my shoulder and step back until my heel hits the edge of the porch.
“No.” He regards me once more and makes room for me to enter. “Come, I’ll heat up the food for you.”
I follow him through the house and a bergamot scent drifts from his body. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who wears such a delicate, citrusy cologne.
The house smells just as nice as Kas and there’s a burning candle on a decorative shelf in the hallway. We walk through an archway into a fancy kitchen bordered by marble countertops and little plastered accents where the ceiling meets the wall.
“So, who designed what?” I ask, dragging my finger along the edge of a breakfast bar.
“I designed most things. Devon helped pick out some bits, though.”
A small, thoughtful smile appears on Kas’s face and for some reason, I smile too.
“I think we have the same taste in interior design. Your home is beautiful and it smells so good.”
Kas nods and looks around the kitchen. “Thanks.”
Conversation over, I guess.
He takes the container from my hand and his fingertips brush mine. I subconsciously wipe my hand on the outside of my thigh, and Kas’s eyes linger briefly on my leg as he removes the lid. He looks closer at the stew, not in disgust, but something else. Approval?
“Brown stew,” he muses.
“Mhm. Have you tried it before?”
“Once, years ago. I tried making it again recently.”
“Tried?”
Kas pulls out a drawer and I soon realize that it’s a high-spec microwave when he starts pressing buttons above it. “It didn’t taste the same.”
“You could try different amounts of browning sauce? Molasses? Or marinate the chicken for longer, like, two days?” I propose offhandedly.
My suggestion probably won’t make a difference because I actually hate cooking and I’m too distracted by the various fancy appliances dotted around Kas’s kitchen to think of a better suggestion for his stew recipe.
A little light sparks in his eyes and he pulls out a sticky note from a drawer by his hip, exactly where the edge of his boxers peek out from his low-hanging joggers. He writes something on it and then retrieves a neat, leatherbound notebook from the same drawer, flicking through the pages until he finds the one he’s looking for.
“It’s amusing to watch you take this cooking stuff so seriously. Kinda admirable.” I hum.
“Why?” he asks, adhering the sticky note to the opened page.
“Cooking is a chore to me unless it takes less than thirty minutes. Why would I enjoy over thirty minutes of cooking a dish just to inhale the food in less time than that?”
I constantly say the same thing to Auntie, much to her disapproval.
Kas crosses his arms over his chest and furrows his brows unhappily. “That’s a very lazy mindset to have.”
I shake my head. “Nuh-uh, it means I’m more selective with my time.”
Kas eyes me with suspicion. “Nice save.”
I huff out a laugh, and he clears his throat, taking a ripe plantain out of a fruit bowl I didn’t notice when entering earlier—one of my favorite foods.
“Damn, you have plantains locked and loaded?” I question.
“Of course.” He says it in a tone that implies I shouldn’t have thought otherwise.
I bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing at his attitude. “You do know that you don’t have to talk to me like you have a gun pressed against your skull?”
“I do the listening and you do the talking. It’s how we work,” he says, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “Opposites get on.”
“Two sentences, well done! Now, if only you got the phrase correct, it’s opposites attract . Can you say it with me? Ah-tract.” I place my chin into my palm and look at him expectantly.
His eye twitches with annoyance and I burst out laughing. I catch him smiling too. It’s not a small smile either, it’s big enough that I can see that his canines are on the sharper side and perfectly aligned with the rest of his teeth.
“You’re not funny,” he says with a chuckle. Kas’s laugh is nice. Very nice, very rare, and most of all, very hot.
“Sure, sure.”
After washing his hands, he diagonally slices the plantain in his hand, cutting it the same way my granny cuts her vegetables. No chopping board, just palms of steel.
“What’s your ethnicity?” I ask, curious as to what may have sparked his interest in food.
“Polish.”
That explains the spelling of his name.
“You’re the only person I know called Kacper. I think it’s a nice name.”
The microwave dings and he stirs the stew, putting it back in for a few more seconds. “It’s more common in Chicago, where I was born.” He awkwardly clears his throat. “I like your name too. Do you prefer Amari or Mari?”
I see he’s taking my suggestion of saying more than two sentences seriously.
“Well, my family calls me both. My cousin babbled the word ‘mar’ when she was, like, a few months old. At first, Auntie thought it was an attempt at ‘mama,’ until Quinn’s chubby little baby finger pointed at me.”
Kas collects my food from the microwave and places it into a ceramic bowl with a spoon and fork, nodding gently at my ramblings.
I push the bowl back to him and nod encouragingly. “Try some. Anyway, Quinn is eighteen now and ‘Mari’ stuck.” My cheeks heat at the amount of information I’ve shared with Kas and burn up completely when his expression melts into something close to bliss after consuming a spoonful of Auntie’s stew. “Do you have any Polish food here?” I ask, changing the conversation so that I don’t end up talking about my family for hours.
Kas shakes himself out of whatever state the stew lulled him into and reaches into the refrigerator behind him to retrieve a packet of extremely long, thin, dried meat. “Kabanos,” he says, opening the packet and ripping off a section of the meat. “I don’t know how it’ll hold up next to your Aunt’s stew.”
He dangles it in front of me. I stare at it for a while until Kas does something strange—he pokes it against my lips. I’m unsure whether to eat out of his hand or not. He brings it to his mouth, chomps down on it, and then places the food back to my lips.
“Bite it like that,” he says impatiently, answering my thoughts.
My eyes go a little cross-eyed as I look down my nose at the food. “Aggressive. We haven’t argued yet today and you’re walking on a very thin line,” I say, unable to curb my sudden shyness.
My eyes latch on to his when I lean forward to take a bite from the same place he did. Kas watches me intensely, his jaw flexing as he chews. He looks like he’s considering crossing said invisible line.
“Good?” he asks, his voice a grumble.
“Oh, yeah.” It’s salty and meaty, exactly what I thought it would taste like.
Kas scans my face, gauging my reaction. “Yeah?” he asks with a small, upward tilt of his lips. “You can tell me if you hate it.”
Kas smiles wider and it encourages me to snatch the kabanos from him. We take turns biting the end of it until there’s only a little bit of the dried sausage left.
“Would someone that hates it eat that much?” I ask after swallowing my final mouthful and continuing with my stew. My throat grows drier with each bite, fighting against the saltiness of both foods. “Water, please?”
I cough and Kas watches me for a beat. I rest my hand on my throat and swallow painfully against the sudden dryness. Kas walks quickly to fill a large pint glass with the water dispenser on his refrigerator, and I snatch it from him before it makes contact with the breakfast bar to gulp down half of the cool liquid.
“Don’t eat that much without water next time,” he says with a devilish grin.
I stick out my tongue as he finishes the last bit of kabanos. “Do you feed kabanos to every girl who comes here?” I joke, attempting to segue into a more personal conversation.
I haven’t seen him around a woman that isn’t me, Violet, or Davina, and sitting in his house has me more curious than ever.
“None. I’m not interested in having sex right now.”
Okay?
I scoff. “I was asking about dating, not whether or not you do the deed. Gross, Kas.”
“You asked,” he says coolly.
“I did not ask about you doing the deed. Go ahead and rewind the tapes because the three-letter word for doing the deed never left my lips.” I place my finger on my lip and Kas follows it.
“Stop calling it ‘doing the deed,’” he mumbles, forcing his eyes away from my mouth.
I chuckle and look down at a chunk of chicken. “My bad ... coitus.”
A pungent smell of burning food fills the air.
Kas’s eyes widen just as an alarm blares. “Shit.”
He takes the plantain off the stove and opens up a door that leads to the outside. I locate the smoke alarm above me and unsteadily jump up onto the breakfast bar stool with a cloth to fan it. My socks offer no friction and standing up straight on a spinning barstool is a challenge in itself.
I yelp when Kas effortlessly snatches me off the stool by my waist and takes the cloth from my hand to fan the smoke alarm himself. The swiftness of it has me a little dazed, and his arm stays hooked around my midsection, my feet barely on the ground. He releases me when the smoke alarm cuts, leaving a muted ringing in my ears.
“That’s the first time I’ve burned it.”
He looks up at the fire alarm and I look at him. His hair has dried from a dark brown into a chestnut color, and the bright kitchen lights do little to hide the defined muscles underneath his T-shirt.
Is this what a waist grab does to a woman? I see him shirtless every single day at work, and all of a sudden, I’m falling apart at the seams because he’s touched my waist.
Kas’s tongue swipes his bottom lip. The second he starts to turn back to me, I look to the stove, hoping that he hasn’t just caught me scanning his side profile.
“If you look away from frying plantains, they’ll burn. If you watch, they’ll take ages to cook,” I say.
“Damn.”
I smooth down my T-shirt to brush away the ghostly sensation of his touch on my waist and check my phone, huffing when I see Isaac’s name.
Isaac: Where r u?
Me: Out
Isaac: With who?
I silence my phone and refocus on getting a grip. Since my breakup, I’ve discovered that I find it very easy to develop minuscule crushes.
Hot guy? Crush.
Flirting thinly veiled by sarcasm? Crush.
Waist grab? Crush.
I know there’s this whole thing about self-improving after a breakup, but when your ex is bottom of the barrel, nobody ever talks about how getting out of a relationship with them can completely skew your standards. And by skew, I mean having none.
I look up in the direction of banging pans and find Kas attempting to fry another plantain. “You know what? I don’t think you can even cook,” I joke.
Kas visibly flinches at my words. “Why would you think that?”
“You said you tried to cook stew chicken, you burned plantain, and you fed me pre-cooked meat.”
“It’s just a bad first impression.”
“Because you’re renowned for good first impressions, right?” I say.
“Funny. Keep this up and I’ll be driving to Vegas without you tomorrow.”
I release a dramatic gasp. “You wouldn’t.”
When arranging how we’d get to Vegas, Bill nominated his now-working van, thanks to Devon’s mechanic skills. Davina agreed with him because it means being able to fit all of the equipment we want to take and extra legroom for herself. Dash insisted on making his way to Vegas a day early for personal reasons, a.k.a. going through his roster of women he’s met there before and getting started on—in his words—rekindling past relations with them.
With Kas and I left to choose how to make our way there, we decided to ride together out of convenience ... and because I didn’t want to drive for five hours.
If someone asked me twenty-four hours ago why I’m dreading the car ride, I’d say it was because it would be awkward, hostile, and a pain in the ass to be enclosed in a metal box with Kas.
The reasoning still rings true, only now I’ve seen a side of Kas I’ve never seen before; it’s a relaxed version of him where we bond over food and laugh like we haven’t spent the working day biting each other’s heads off.
I don’t hate out-of-work Kas, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.