Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
I t’s quiet at the Haven house.
Eerily so. The same kind of quiet you only hear before something really, really bad happens.
Or maybe it only seems that way because Taylor is standing beside me. Wordlessly removing the grocery bags from my hands and setting them atop the counter.
Our ride home was as silent as the first, and twice as tense. At least, it felt that way in contrast to the first comfortable conversation we’ve ever had. Well, the first comfortable conversation we’ve had in real life. The hundreds of my high school daydreams probably don’t count.
What’s strange is Taylor hasn’t made some excuse to get one of us out of the room. His one-word replies might be cold, but that’s nothing new. At least he’s still here. Helping me unload the five bags we filled with a week’s worth of food.
I place a jar of pasta sauce on the counter, followed by a packet of noodles. Taylor reaches for them, but before he can move them into the pantry, I hold up a hand.
“I’m making pasta for dinner. You’re fine with spaghetti, right?”
He is. I know he is. He brings homemade pasta to work at least twice a week. But his lips tighten, and I interrupt before he can utter what I suspect is coming next.
“I know you get weird when I offer you food.” I arch a brow, finding quiet amusement in the surprise that sweeps across his face. “You’ll have to help me make the pot, obviously. I have a tendency to overcook just about everything.”
Which isn’t a total lie…but I mostly say the words for his benefit. For some unknown reason, he couldn’t accept my matcha, or any one of the dozens of treats I’ve brought for the Havens. But if he’s here, making dinner with me…well, I don’t see how he could object.
Taylor appears to be mulling it over, maybe wondering if I can slip rat poison into the sauce without him noticing. Eventually, he dips his head, a faint flush reddening his cheeks.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks. I’ll, uh, start heating the water.”
I shrug, gesturing at the pantry. “I think pots are somewhere in there.”
We fall into an easy silence. Taylor keeps an eye on the spaghetti noodles while I work on the sauce. I can hear him moving around while I dice hot dogs, and there’s something kind of nice about his quiet company. When I cook at home, I have to put on an audiobook or blast music to keep myself entertained. But I find myself enjoying the sound of my knife striking the cutting board, how Taylor drums his fingers against the marble counter while he waits. I’m able to focus on what I’m doing, ground myself in the present.
It isn’t until I turn around to grab a new knife that I realize Taylor’s silence was for a different reason entirely. His face is beet red, one hand wrapped in an oven mitt as he tries and fails to keep the water from bubbling over the rim of the pot.
“What are you doing?” I hurry over, turning down the heat. Half of the noodles have melted completely through and the others are still sticking straight into the air.
Taylor’s wide eyes dart to mine. His mouth is open, but he appears lost for words.
The sight is so ridiculous, so unexpected, my lips curve into a smile. “Why didn’t you ask for my help?”
Taylor wrings his hands, looking more uncertain than I’ve ever seen him. “You were busy. I didn’t want—I mean, I thought I shouldn’t disturb you…”
I can’t help it, a small giggle bursts through my lips. Taylor’s eyes narrow at the sound, which coaxes even more laughter. “I thought you knew how to cook!” I say through my hands. “Don’t you bring your own lunch every day?”
Taylor grumbles something too garbled to make out. He turns his face away, which only shows me how red his ears are.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I buy ready-made!” he says, a bit louder. “I’ve never really cooked before. Okay? But it’s not like it’s hard to pick up. I can still help. I just need…I just—”
Flustered Taylor is kind of adorable. The minute I think the words, I push them behind prison bars. Nope. Not going there.
I clear my throat, bringing Taylor’s pot to the sink and dumping out the water. I leave the salvageable noodles in the strainer while I go to rinse out his mess.
“Okay, let’s do this together. Just watch this time, okay?”
Taylor purses his lips, nodding his head so quickly that some of his hair falls into his eyes. If our relationship was different, if we were friends, I might be tempted to push it away. But I turn back to our groceries, retrieving a new package of spaghetti.
“I bought a couple extras just in case I messed them up.” I flash Taylor a mischievous look. “Thanks for ruining them before I could.”
He makes a choking sound while I bring the water to a boil. “Leave this on high for about seven minutes, until you see bubbles at the surface. Once you pour the noodles in, you should lower it to medium heat.”
He leans closer, eyes following my every motion like he does when he’s taking Victor’s notes.
“You’ve really never made pasta before?” He gives me another uneasy shake of his head and I nod. “Okay, well, just let me know if I’m over-explaining something, okay? Otherwise, I’ll break it down for you so you can start making your own spaghetti.”
I lead him to the countertop, explaining why I like to add extra ingredients to the sauce. “You like bell peppers, right? I add them to literally everything.”
Taylor quirks an almost smile. “Bell peppers are fine. I didn’t know you were such a big fan. You usually bring sandwiches for lunch. Or that microwaveable shit.”
My eyebrows arch. I didn’t know he paid attention to anything I did. “Yeah, well. Slapping a couple pieces of bread and lunch meat together takes less time. I kind of have to rush most mornings to beat you to work.”
The other half of Taylor’s lips complete his smile. “You’re a formidable opponent.”
“Yeah? Imagine how stress-free my mornings were before you started working here. Now I always have to be two steps ahead. It’s exhausting.” I roll my eyes to show him I’m joking before turning back to the stove. “All right, my timer says it’s been ten minutes. Let’s check on the noodles.”
Taylor stands at my back, leaning over my shoulder to watch as I retrieve a strand with a fork.
“I don’t know what you’re actually supposed to do, but I always just try a piece to make sure it’s cooked.” With exactly zero grace, I lift the steaming noodle high, biting off the tiniest piece at the end. “Fuck. Hot,” I gasp, tossing the rest of the noodles into the trash. “But done, I think. Remember what I said about overcooking everything? If your spaghetti is weirdly chewy, don’t be too mad.”
Taylor chuckles, and he’s standing close enough that I can feel the reverberations in his chest. I have to stifle a shudder before turning back to the pot. “Can you bring me the sauce?”
He does without a word, dutifully handing the jar to me like a proper assistant.
“Are you okay with banana ketchup? It’s not savory like meat sauce but kind of—”
“Sweet.” Taylor nods, finishing my thought. “My mom is Filipino. She used to make us spaghetti for dinner at least twice a week. She’d actually mix in extra sugar.” He shakes his head, chuckling a bit. “My dad never came around to it. But your dad is Filipino, right?”
I nod, pressing my lips together. I’d seen Taylor’s mom on a handful of occasions, and she never failed to take my breath away. With her luminous skin and kind face, it’s no wonder where Taylor got his good looks. Though I’d hazard a guess his father is no troll, either. Not when his son is regularly called an Adonis.
“That’s right. Though my mom did learn to love all his favorite dishes,” I murmur, pouring the sauce into the pot. I always knew Taylor was mixed, but this is the first time he’s acknowledged we have something in common. I give the pasta a few stirs before gesturing at the sliced hot dogs. “I assume these are okay, then?” When he nods, I pour the lot in. “I’m going to turn the stove to a low boil, just to make sure everything gets hot as I mix the ingredients together.”
Taylor’s eyes widen like I’ve said something profound. I shake my head, another laugh building low in my throat. Never in a million years did I think I’d be the best chef in a room. But Taylor’s acting like I’m the next Wolfgang Puck.
“All right,” I say, offering Taylor a serving with a flourish. “Homemade sweet spaghetti. Kind of. I hope you like it.”
He takes the bowl with two hands, holding his dinner like it’s something precious. I watch as he places it gently on the counter, and for a moment, I worry he’s going to make another one of his excuses. Push the pasta around his bowl without ever actually eating it. But after two seconds of hesitation, he swirls his fork around the noodles, shoving a huge bite into his mouth.
I realize I’m waiting a bit breathlessly while he chews and swallows. Before I can ask what he thinks, he lets out a moan. The sound is low, completely unbidden. And it travels straight down my spine.
Our eyes lock, both of us going still. Taylor clears his throat, looking a bit sheepish as he turns back to his bowl. “Way better than ready-made,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”
I don’t know how to reply, so I take my own bite. The spaghetti is…fine. Nothing special. But Taylor’s praise makes each bite feel like a Michelin meal.
He eats like a starving man, making low sounds of approval every time he bites into a hot dog. I realize my throat has gone dry, my bowl barely touched when he goes for seconds.
He’s halfway through another helping when he glances my way. “Do you not like it?” He sounds almost worried, his brow crinkled in the middle.
The question is so surprisingly sweet I grapple for my fork, taking a huge bite just to appease him. “No, it’s good,” I babble. “I’m glad you like— shit! ”
I watch the huge dollop of red sauce fall in slow motion. It splatters onto the middle of my chest before dribbling down the length of my sweatshirt. My one and only sweatshirt. I reach for the napkins, trying to pat down the spill the best I can. But the more I swipe, the worse the red gets.
“I think the stain’ll come out if you throw it into the laundry tonight,” Taylor says, his voice closer than before. I jerk my head up, finding him right beside me, a new stack of napkins in his hands.
“Yeah, okay. You’re probably right.” I sigh, already mourning the temporary loss of my only normal article of clothing. I reach for the hem without thinking, tugging it up over my head. Cool air skitters across my stomach, and before I can figure out where it’s coming from, a warm hand grazes my skin, pulling down my undershirt where it had ridden up.
When I pull the hoodie over my head, Taylor’s looking determinedly away from me. “Sorry,” he starts, “I should’ve asked you first. It was just…”
His voice trails off and my cheeks flame. I wonder just how much my shirt had come up to make Taylor feel like he had to intervene. I try to remember what bra I put on today…and flush even more when I decide it’s likely the pink bustier with the semi-sheer cups.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I, uh, would’ve done the same for you.”
His eyes flicker back to mine, a whisper of laughter in them. “Oh, yeah?”
I curse when I realize how stupid I sound. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”
But Taylor doesn’t pick or prod. He just turns back to his bowl with that tiny smile, polishing it off in three more bites. I swallow, deciding I’m not so hungry after all. Gathering my dishes from the table, I go to rummage through the Havens’ cupboards in search of saranwrap.
“I’m going to watch some TV before cleaning up,” I say over my shoulder. “Do you mind?” I wonder if he’s one of those clean freaks who hate leaving dirty dishes around for any length of time. But Taylor surprises me by shaking his head.
“I think I’m going to head out for a run. I’ll do the dishes when I get back. Thank you for cooking dinner for both of us. And for teaching me.” His eyes roam my face before he looks away. “That was decent of you, Ayla. I owe you one.”
And before I can even open my mouth, he’s gone. Leaving me alone with all the words stolen off my tongue.