Chapter 5
five
. . .
Hannah
I pull up outside Bennett's house and just sit there for a minute, staring.
It's beautiful. Not in a showy way, but in that understated, expensive way that screams I have my life together and you definitely don't. Two stories, clean lines, big windows that probably let in perfect natural light, a front door that looks like it cost more than my rent.
The landscaping is immaculate. Not a single leaf out of place.
Even the mailbox looks like it belongs in a home design magazine.
I glance down at myself. Jeans and a soft sweater. My hair is down, loose waves that I spent way too long on this afternoon. I'm wearing the perfume Bennett said he liked, the one I bought specifically because he mentioned it.
I look fine.
I look normal.
So why do I feel like I'm about to walk into a museum where I'm not allowed to touch anything?
Get it together, Hannah. He invited you. He wants you here.
Except what if he regrets it? What if he takes one look at me standing in his perfect house and realizes I don't fit? That I'm the girl who spills coffee and makes messes and doesn't know which fork to use at fancy restaurants?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my palms damp.
Stop. Just stop.
I grab the bottle of wine I brought, nothing fancy, just something from the grocery store that the clerk said was "pretty good", and climb out of the car before I can talk myself into leaving.
The front door opens before I even reach it.
Bennett stands there in dark jeans and a gray henley, barefoot, his hair slightly messy like he's been running his hands through it. He looks so good it's almost unfair. Casual in a way I've never seen him.
"Hi," I say, suddenly shy.
"Hi." He steps aside, letting me in, and his hand finds the small of my back as I pass. The touch sends warmth spreading through me. "You look beautiful."
"Thanks. You look pretty good yourself."
He takes the wine from me, glancing at the label, and smiles. "Perfect. Come on, I'll give you the tour."
The inside is just as impressive as the outside.
Hardwood floors gleam under soft lighting.
High ceilings make everything feel open and airy.
The furniture looks like it belongs in a magazine, clean lines, neutral colors, everything perfectly arranged.
There's not a single thing out of place.
No clutter. No mess. No sign that anyone actually lives here.
I follow him through the living room, my boots quiet on the polished floor. Past a home office with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound books and legal texts. Into the kitchen.
And oh my God, the kitchen.
Marble countertops stretch across the space, gleaming under pendant lights.
Stainless steel appliances that look like they've never been used.
An island big enough to host a small party.
Pots and pans hanging from a rack above the stove, all gleaming and perfectly arranged like they're waiting for a photoshoot.
"This is amazing," I say, running my hand along the cool marble.
"Thanks. I don't use it as much as I should." He sets the wine down and turns to face me, leaning against the counter. "But I'm glad you're here. I thought we could cook together."
"Cook together?"
"Yeah. Unless you'd rather I just make something and you sit there looking pretty."
I laugh, some of the tension easing. "No, I want to help. What are we making?"
"Pasta. From scratch."
"From scratch? Like, actual pasta?"
"Actual pasta." He pulls out a bag of flour and a carton of eggs from the pantry. "It's easier than it sounds. I promise."
I'm not convinced, but I roll up my sleeves anyway. "Okay. What do I do?"
He walks me through it, his voice patient and steady. Measuring out the flour, making a well in the center, cracking the eggs into it. His hands move with practiced ease, confident and sure, and I try to follow along.
But I'm clumsy.
Flour gets everywhere. On the counter. On my jeans. A cloud of it puffs up when I accidentally knock the bag, and I cough, waving my hand in front of my face.
"Sorry," I say, laughing as I brush at the white streak on his chest where I bumped into him.
"It's fine." He catches my hand, holding it against him for a second longer than necessary. His chest is warm and solid under my palm. "You're doing great."
"I'm making a mess."
"That's part of the fun."
I look up at him, and there's something in his eyes that makes my stomach flip. He's so close. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.
"Okay," I say, my voice a little breathless. "What's next?"
"Knead the dough."
He shows me how, his hands covering mine as we work the dough together. It's intimate in a way I didn't expect. His chest pressed against my back, his breath warm on my neck, his arms bracketing mine as we push and fold the dough.
"Like this?" I ask, hyperaware of every point of contact between us.
"Exactly like that."
We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I try to focus on the dough instead of the way his body feels against mine. The way his hands guide mine with such gentle certainty.
Then I glance around the kitchen. "Do you have music?"
"Music?"
"Yeah. You can't cook without music. It's a rule."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into my back. "Is it?"
"Absolutely."
He pulls out his phone and connects it to a speaker on the counter. A moment later, soft jazz fills the kitchen.
I wrinkle my nose. "Jazz?"
"What's wrong with jazz?"
"Nothing. It's just very... you."
"What does that mean?"
"Sophisticated. Controlled. A little uptight."
He raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Uptight?"
"In the best way," I say quickly, grinning. "Like, in a sexy way."
"Sexy?"
"Very sexy." I turn in his arms, suddenly bold. "But also very predictable."
He shakes his head, but he's smiling. "What would you pick?"
"Something with a beat. Something you can dance to."
"Dance to?"
"Yeah. Like this."
I grab his phone and scroll through his playlist until I find something upbeat. The music shifts, and I start moving, swaying my hips, spinning in a little circle. Flour dust still clings to my sweater, and I probably look ridiculous, but I don't care.
Bennett watches me, his arms crossed, a smile tugging at his lips. "What are you doing?"
"Dancing. Obviously."
"In the middle of cooking?"
"Why not? Life's too short to stand still."
He just stares at me, and for a second I think I've gone too far. That I've crossed some invisible line and he's going to tell me to stop being ridiculous. That I'm making a mess of his perfect kitchen and his perfect evening.
But then he steps forward.
"Okay," he says. "Show me."
"Show you what?"
"How to dance."
I blink. "You want to dance?"
"You said life's too short to stand still."
I laugh, surprised and delighted. "Okay. Come here."
I take his hands and pull him closer, guiding them to my waist. His palms settle there, warm and sure, and I rest mine on his chest. "Just move with me. Don't overthink it."
"I always overthink it."
"Then stop."
We start moving, slow at first, just swaying to the music. He's stiff, self-conscious, his movements careful and measured. But I keep smiling at him, encouraging him, and gradually he relaxes. His hands tighten slightly on my waist. His body moves closer.
"See?" I say. "You're doing it."
"I'm doing something."
"You're dancing."
He spins me, and I laugh, the sound bright and unguarded. When he pulls me back, I'm closer than before, my hands sliding up to his shoulders, his arms wrapping around my waist.
The music shifts to something slower, and we keep moving, our bodies pressed together. His eyes are locked on mine, and I can feel the tension building between us, thick and electric. The kitchen fades away. The flour-dusted counters, the half-made pasta, everything disappears until it's just us.
"Hannah," he says, his voice low.
"Yeah?"
"I really want to kiss you right now."
"Then kiss me."
He does.
It's slow at first, tentative, like he's giving me a chance to pull away. But I don't. I lean into him, my hands sliding up to his neck, threading into his hair, and he deepens the kiss. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I make a small sound that I can't hold back.
He groans, his hands tightening on my waist, pulling me flush against him.
"We should go upstairs," I whisper against his lips.
"I don't think I'm making it that far."
He lifts me onto the counter in one smooth motion, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. His hands are everywhere, my hips, my thighs, sliding under my sweater to find bare skin.
"God, you're so soft," he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck. "So perfect."
“God, Bennett.”
"Tell me to stop."
"Don't stop."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with want. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
He lifts me again, carrying me to the living room, and lays me down on the couch. I reach for him, pulling him down on top of me, and he settles between my legs, his weight pressing me into the cushions.
For a moment, he just looks at me. His eyes roaming over my face, taking me in like he's trying to memorize this exact moment. He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, his touch impossibly gentle.
"Still with me?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Always," I whisper.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he says, his hands sliding under my sweater again.
"Me too."
He pulls my sweater over my head, tossing it aside, and then his mouth is on my skin. Kissing, tasting, exploring. His lips trail along my collarbone, down to the swell of my breasts above my bra. I arch into him, my hands fisting in his hair.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers against my skin. "So fucking beautiful."
"So are you."
He laughs softly, and then his hands are on my jeans, unbuttoning them, sliding them down my legs. I help him, kicking them off, and then I'm reaching for his shirt, pulling it over his head.