22. Chapter 22
Daria
The last five days have been…interesting…to say the least.
After Max dropped the whole Dane being stalked bomb on me, I spent way too much time researching doorbell cams. And lost a lot of sleep.
But after the third night of no intruders, I decided he’s probably right and this Laura chick has moved on.
Nothing odd has happened since I moved in, so we’re probably good.
The other and more interesting development is that Dane and I have been texting daily .
Which feels so weird I can’t even put a name to the emotion it conjures inside me.
Relief, maybe? Hopeful? I refuse to say giddy…
Anyway, we’ve somehow reached a truce and are veering dangerously close to what I might consider a legit friendship.
But I haven’t mentioned the Laura thing.
Mostly because it came by way of Max, who, let’s face it, is a third party.
And information that comes by way of third parties usually lacks important details.
Plus, it may be something Dane doesn’t want me to know.
Lord knows I’ve got plenty of things I’d rather not flaunt for the world.
It only feels right that I afford him the same privacy.
Maybe he hasn’t told me because he doesn’t want me to worry unnecessarily. Or maybe he’s just not proud of the fact that he had a stalker. Either way, I’m not asking. I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt on this and focusing on the current state of things.
Like him returning home this afternoon. I’ve decided to surprise him with lunch. It’s no big deal, just some grilled vegetable paninis that I spent nearly thirty minutes on.
But it’s cool. It’s friendly. Nice . Easily something I would’ve done for Jamie after she came home from a long day of work.
The only thing that makes it any different is that Dane is a guy. A handsome guy I wanted to date once, but so what?
I check the time on my phone to see how close it is to one thirty.
Since I’ve got a few minutes, I head to the bathroom to check my hair and makeup.
Not that I care about what I’ll look like for Dane.
I’m just…casually making sure there’s no sauce on my face from when I made lunch.
What does it matter if I swipe on another layer of my shimmery lip gloss in the name of moisturizing my lips?
The sound of the front door closing makes me jump and toss my tube of lip gloss across the bathroom.
“Hey,” a familiar deep voice calls. “It’s just me. Don’t shoot.”
A smile tugs at my mouth as I head out to greet him.
Dane stands tall in the center of the kitchen, his work bag slung over his shoulder.
The apartment seems to shrink in size whenever he’s in it.
I have the strangest urge to wrap him in a hug, but I shove that ridiculousness right back where it came from.
“Something smells good in here.” A bright smile stretches across his face, highlighting the dark shadow across his upper lip.
“What the heck is on your face?” I lunge forward in an awkward attempt to inspect the hairy caterpillar that’s somehow stuck on his lip.
I manage to stay far enough away that his glorious man smell can’t interfere with my decision-making skills.
God only knows what would happen if I gave in to my earlier urge to embrace him.
But I can’t really get close enough to tell if it’s a dark smudge of something, a small furry animal or…
“You don’t like my mustache ?”
“Your what ?”
His impish grin grow s and his fingers hover over the poor excuse for what he just called it. “My mustache. Decided to grow it out this week.” He stalks past me toward his bedroom, where I already know he’ll spend the next ten minutes dutifully and meticulously unpacking his bag.
I can’t help but follow after him. Curiosity simmers inside of me, just waiting to burst out of my skin. Dane either can’t grow a mustache successfully or he’s kidding and playing some weird prank. Honestly, I hope it’s the latter.
“What possessed you to try and grow a mustache?”
He stops inside the doorway to his room and turns toward me. “My friend mentioned how good I’d look with one, so…” He shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a go.”
“Just like that.”
He nods, then drops his bag on his bed. “Just like that.”
I cross my arms and lean against his doorframe, watching him remove the folded clothes and toiletries from his bag. “You look like a thirteen-year-old that just hit puberty.”
He rolls his head toward me with a droll look. “It’s only been five days, D. Give me some credit. I can grow a mustache that would make Tom Selleck proud.”
I snort a laugh. “You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
A sigh heaves from my chest, and I drop my arms. “Even so. Why would you want to? Most women our age aren’t into them.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “So?”
“So. You should shave it.”
He licks his lips, narrowing his eyes at me. “Why do you care?”
“Psh. I don’t.”
“Sounds like you do.”
Suppressing an eyeroll, I move closer, eyes fixed on that thing above his lip.
“I only care in a platonic, I’m your helpful female roommate and I know what the general female populace desires in a mate sort of way.
” When his lips twitch on a smile, I soldier on.
“And forgive me for bursting your manly mustache bubble, but most girls don’t want to kiss a guy with fur on his upper lip. ”
Dane just shakes his head. “Diehard Benson Boone fans might disagree with you.”
This time, I let my eyes roll into the back of my head. “Okay, fine, Mr. Mustached Bodybuilder. Have it your way. I’m going to have some lunch.” I stomp out of his room and ignore the way his laughter follows me.
“You made lunch?” His voice carries into the kitchen, sending stupid baby butterflies swirling in my stomach.
“Yeah. Got hungry.” And thought you might want something to eat when you got home.
As nonchalantly as possible, I pull out two plates and two sets of silverware, then casually place them across the table from one another. It’s not like I’m setting the table for two. I’m only thinking ahead. Just in case.
A few seconds later, Dane wanders into the kitchen. His gaze catches on the table setting before lifting to the platter of paninis in my hands. “You made lunch.”
My eyebrow lifts all on its own. I’m not sure what repeating himself twice in the span of five minutes means for his mental health, but I don’t address it. “Yeah. Hungry?”
His throat ripples on a swallow. “Very.”
I nod, mildly pleased that he didn’t already eat. If he had, it would’ve been fine, but this is…better.
Setting the platter in the center of the table, I smile. “It’s nothing special, just grilled vegetable paninis with homemade aioli.” Dane halts in front of his chair.
“Homemade aioli? That sounds special.”
I raise my gaze to his. “It’s not. Super quick and easy to make. Like three ingredients.”
If I was a betting woman, I’d bet he was fighting back a smile. “Whatever you say,” Dane says. “Either way, it sounds delicious.”
“It is.”
Dane drops into his seat while I grab a bag of chips from the pantry and some fancy mustard from the fridge. He already has a panini on my plate by the time I make it back to the table. A small twinge of something sparks in my chest. Gratefulness? Appreciation? Hope ?
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking my seat.
“This is nice. You’re the one who deserves to be thanked.”
“What? I just got hungry.” My shoulders involuntarily lift and lower. Nonchalance is my middle name. “Started to make lunch and thought I should make enough for two in case you hadn’t eaten. It’s what I always did for Jamie.”
Suddenly, nothing is more interesting than the mustard bottle’s label.
“But I’m not Jamie.” His soft-spoken words force my attention to his face.
“No.” I swallow. “You’re not.”
Silence permeates every nook and cranny between us until he slices through it. “It’s nice to come home to a freshly cooked meal from a beautiful—” Abruptly, he stops. My breath catches. Then he finishes with “Friend,” and I’m able to breathe again.
I clear my throat, not hating the way he said friend . “Right. Well. Let’s eat.”
Awkwardness clings to me as if I’m made of the stuff. My movements are so frazzled and jittery I end up reaching into the bag of chips the same time as Dane. Our fingers tangle together.
Crap .
I jerk my hand away, ignoring the warmth radiating down my arm. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
Dane’s soft smile doesn’t help ease my embarrassment. “Here.” He plops a hefty serving of chips onto my plate. Again, I mutter a thanks.
What is with me today? Am I about to have a stroke or something?
“How’s the fashion show project coming along?”
I silently thank God for Dane’s question and take the next few minutes to tell him all about what I’ve accomplished while he’s been away. He nods as I speak, appearing genuinely interested in how it’s all going.
I finish with, “If you’re free after lunch, I’d love to see how the shirt fits. That way I can make any necessary adjustments early.”
“Sure,” he says, then holds up one half of his sandwich. “By the way, this tastes as good as it looks.”
Liquid satisfaction streams through my core. “Glad you like it.”
“I love it.” Then, like it’s some expertly crafted temptation meant to be my undoing, Dane licks a bit of aioli off his fingers. And to my complete and utter devastation, our eyes lock at the last second.
I look away, mortified.
“Well, I’m stuffed,” I blurt, jolting back from the table so quickly Dane startles.
“Oh, okay.”
I walk to the sink and discard my leftovers in one of the glass containers Dane insists I use just for them, then pop it into the fridge.
“I’ll go and get your shirt ready. Just…
come to my room when you’re done.” I give my dirty dish a quick rinse and set it into the dishwasher the way I know Dane likes me to.
“Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”