Chapter 18
Mac
My hand hesitates on the doorknob. Would it be weird to just open it and walk in?
She did agree to let me stay here, so it would be weirder to knock and make her answer the door, right?
Hoping I make the right decision, I open the door, the scent of something delicious hitting my nose before I can even cross the threshold to stand inside.
I pull in a deep breath and let the aromas swirl around me.
Other than growing up when Mom would have dinner ready and on the table by five when my dad got home from work, I've never had this. I've never been in a serious relationship where someone cooked for me.
I know better than to think of this as anything more than transactional, but knowing I'm going to have a good meal after a hard day's work hits me in a way I wouldn't want to speak out loud.
I know I paid for the food. That's my end of the bargain, and hers is to cook, but there's a labor of love that goes into preparing a meal for someone, and I know better than to just see this as her doing her part, despite knowing that's exactly what it is.
She's standing at the sink washing a few dishes. The sway of her decadent ass and the off-tune words coming from her mouth tell me she has those earbuds in just like she did last week at my house. My body has the same reaction as it did then, my mouth watering for more than what she has on the stove.
She's sexy as hell, leagues above any woman I've had the privilege of putting my hands on, and knowing exactly what she feels like when she is under me, knowing the noises she makes when she feels pleasure, makes it very difficult not to pick her up and carry her out of the kitchen much the same way I did that first time.
As if she can sense me, she turns, giving me a look over her shoulder. She startles some, but there's a smile on her face not a look of annoyance like she feels irritated that I'm in her space again .
Without pulling her earbuds out, she says, "Twenty minutes until dinner is ready. Go shower."
The command in her voice makes me want to challenge her, to walk up and wrap my filthy arms around her just to see how fiery I can make her, but then there's a chance she'll refuse to feed me, and I can't have that.
I dip my head in agreement before walking toward the guest bedroom to grab clothes to change into after my shower.
The sound of her off-key singing follows me, and I find myself smiling the entire time.
My shower is quick and economical, and I do my best to convince my brain that I'm just hungry and anticipating the taste of her food, but I know better. I want to spend time with her, and as much as I like sliding inside of that tight, perfect body of hers, I know I enjoy talking to her just as much.
I towel off, rubbing, not dabbing like a crazy person, before pulling on a pair of sleep pants and forgoing the shirt because I know it will annoy her as much as it will turn her on.
I fully expect her eyes to roam over my bare chest when I enter the kitchen, but her gaze drops to my feet.
"You aren't wearing shoes," she says almost absently.
"Are your floors dirty?"
"What?" she snaps, her eyes dragging up my body until they lock with mine. "My floors are clean."
"Do you have a foot fetish, baby?" I tease.
"I just... don't think I've ever had a barefooted man walking around my house before."
I watch, seeing her fight the urge to look back down, and I smile when she loses the battle. I wiggle my toes, laughing when she grins.
"I've been barefoot in your bedroom several times now," I say.
She spins, messing with something on the stove rather than answering, but I give her the reprieve because I'm fighting my own battle, wondering why it pleases me to hear that there haven't been other men here.
Unless...
"Do they usually keep their shoes on or something?" I prod.
"Dinner is ready. Will you grab plates?" she says rather than answering my question. "They're in the cabinet right up there."
Her kitchen is small, and I don't think she purposely wants me to step up behind and crowd her in place near the stove, but then again, that doesn't stop me from doing it .
She's as still as a statue when my bare chest covers her back so I can grab the plates, and she doesn't breathe until I take a step back.
I'm struggling with how fucking irresistible she is, and as I set the plates down at the breakfast bar, I can't help but wonder if asking to stay here was a terrible idea. I feel as if I'm feeding some sort of addiction each time I touch her, and when my fingertips aren't tracing over her skin, they itch to do just that.
I'm not the type of man to go out looking for a ton of women to sleep with, and I also don't put myself in a position to end up in a situation that looks like a relationship, either.
I don't want her to get the wrong idea about this, but taking a step back and looking at it from an outsider's impression, I had sex with her and then shortly moved into her house. It doesn't really matter that I'm technically sleeping in the guest bedroom if she falls asleep in my arms.
I've well and truly fucked this whole thing up already, and we're only twenty-four hours into it.
"What is this?" I ask as she uses a serving spoon to dish out food on my plate.
"Pasta bake," she says as she serves herself some as well.
"It has to have a different name than that," I say, picking up my fork and moving the food around.
"If you're going to insult—"
"I'm not insulting the food, Riley. The name is the insult. Look how colorful it is. It smells delicious. Mmm," I groan after taking a bite, all the different flavors exploding on my tongue. "It's fantastic. It's the name that doesn't do it justice."
I look up at her, and I swear the smile on her face is enough to knock any man off his feet. Jesus, she really is absolutely gorgeous.
"You asked for something my grandma would make."
"She made something like this?" I ask, hesitant to speak because it interferes with shoveling food into my mouth.
"She made something similar. I added more vegetables than she put in hers, and mine is made with whole wheat pasta. There's not as much butter in mine as she'd put in hers."
"It's fantastic," I tell her around a bite of food.
My momma would twist my ear for the rudeness of speaking with food in my mouth, but Riley just dips her head as she picks up her fork.
"Thank you for buying the groceries."
"I'll buy the groceries for every meal if I come home to something like this. "
I clamp my jaw closed, a nearly impossible feat when needing to chew, but I know what I just said.
Home.
This isn't my home. It's hers, and if I keep putting my foot in my mouth, I may end up right back outside facing a lumpy hotel bed.
"You made a lot," I begin.
"You're more than welcome to help yourself to more."
I don't hesitate to pick up the serving spoon and add more to my plate.
"I could eat this all week."
"That's what I normally do," she says after she swallows her first bite.
"You eat the same thing all week?"
"I've never figured out how to reduce the meals down to a serving size and still make it taste the way it's supposed to. That's what happened to the breakfast casserole I made." Her cheeks pink as if she's making a confession she had no intention of sharing with me.
"I can help you with this," I say, pointing my fork toward the second heap of food on my plate.
"You're doing a good job."
I take another bite, the flavorful goodness bursting on my tongue, chewing and swallowing before speaking again.
"I mean, I can take some of this to work. If there's a lot left over, I can share with the crew."
Her nose scrunches up.
"Or not," I say when I notice her facial expression.
"It's not going to be very good cold, and I don't want your guys tasting my food when it's not at its best. Can you imagine the rumors?"
I smile at how protective she is of her image when it comes to her food. It's very similar to how I feel about the end product of my own work, and I love that she takes pride in what she does. It's an amazing trait to have.
"Ethan has a microwave that he carries around in his van with him everywhere he goes. The man is always prepared to heat up something to eat," I explain. "They wouldn't have to eat it cold."
"I'll portion some out for you to take with you to work tomorrow," she agrees.
"That would be amazing," I say before diving back into the food on my plate.
The elements of it seem simple, but there's something about the way she cooked and seasoned the meat, pasta, and vegetables that make it come together to make one of the most delicious things I've ever eaten.
I look at her as we eat several times, but she seems content to just eat in silence.
Once the meal is done, she stands, carrying her plate to the sink.
"I'll help with dishes," I offer, but that is met with a frown. "What?"
"If you don't get them clean, then I'm just going to have to wash them again. I figure I might as well wash them from the start."
"I know how to wash dishes, Riley," I say. "What kind of men have you had in your life that didn't?"
And there I go again with a mild implication that I'm now the man in her life, and she should have more confidence in me than she does.
It doesn't seem to flag anything in her eyes because she just shrugs. "How about I wash and you dry and put away?"
Since she cleaned up as she was cooking, it doesn't take long to wash what's left, and I can't help but long for lunch tomorrow when I see her scoop out more than half of the remaining food from the baking dish and put it in a separate container for me and the guys.
Instead of dragging her into the guest bedroom or following her to hers, we say good night in the hallway and go our separate ways.
I'd ask her if she wanted to just chill and watch television, but she doesn't have one in the living room, and I've had other things on my mind when I've been in her bedroom, so I have no clue if she even has one in there.
When night comes, I find myself still staring up at the ceiling, wondering if she's down the hall doing the same.