Chapter 8 Kat
KAT
BAILEY: What do you mean he’s in your house?
KAT: He followed me home from Colt’s
BAILEY: And your brother is just okay with some strange man staying with you?
KAT: He’s not staying with me. He’s waiting till I’m settled for the night
BAILEY: Are you sure?
Frowning, I pull the brush through my hair as I sit on the end of my bed. He better not think he’s staying.
That would be ridiculous.
Completely.
KAT: He’s making dinner
BAILEY: …
KAT: What?
BAILEY: You’re adorably clueless sometimes
KAT: He has a job to do
BAILEY: And it’s not making you dinner
I don’t have a good response to that, but whatever Tom is cooking smells delicious and I’m thankful because aside from a few bites of the pizza Colt had delivered earlier, I haven’t really eaten anything today.
BAILEY: Why don’t you come stay here for a while?
KAT: I’m trying to keep my schedule intact this week, but I’ll talk to Tom and see if that’s an option
BAILEY: Tom, huh?
KAT: Don’t read into that. I have to go. I’ve stalled long enough with my shower and I need to eat before I pass out.
BAILEY: Keep me posted and please be safe
KAT: I will
The events of the day make me miss Bailey more than I usually do. The conference we met at was primarily for writing romance. I’d gone as myself with a fabricated story about how I ended up there.
No one really questioned my presence, as most were trying to absorb as much as they could during the multiday event.
The energy was excited and addicting, everyone buzzing around just waiting to apply what they’d learned.
I’d been excited too, but more than that was the weird kind of freedom I found there—being me but also me.
The Sloane Daniels me.
Not that I could tell anyone that.
Not even Bailey.
That came a couple of years later.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
Tossing my phone onto my bed, I stand and stretch, my bones weary after such a stressful day—so stressful, in fact, that I’d been unable to get myself off in the shower.
Grouchy, frustrated, and hungry—a winning combination if I ever heard one.
Sighing, I turn the doorknob and step into the hall. It’s quiet except for the soft rustling in the kitchen. I should feel unnerved having a stranger in my house, but for some reason, Tom doesn’t feel like a stranger.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been forced to share intimate details of my life over the last several years with him in the hours since we met.
I cannot believe this is my reality right now.
I’m so caught up my head that it takes me an entire ten seconds to realize I’m staring.
At Tom.
Get a grip, Kat.
It’s sage advice and I force myself to move, desperately trying not to draw any attention to the fact I’d been ogling him.
“It smells great in here.” I can tell even without asking that it’s not jarred sauce simmering on the stovetop, and I can’t stop the giddiness bubbling up inside me over that fact.
“I used your garlic.” He motions behind him and I frown. When was the last time I bought garlic?
“Well, the garlic thanks you. It was bound to die a slow and painful death like the ginger I bought to make a salad dressing that never happened.”
“That happen a lot?”
“More than I’d like to admit,” I tell him, sidling up to the island and taking a seat on one of the stools. “I don’t like cooking for just me.”
“What about leftovers?” he asks as he dumps a box of spaghetti into the pot of boiling water.
“It depends but usually I just cut up whatever cheese, vegetables, and fruit I have with some deli meat and whatever else I can find. I used to get one of those food subscription boxes that give you all the ingredients. That was nice but then I did some traveling and canceled it.”
“Traveling for work?”
“I went to a few conferences and signings, booked a vacation, traveled to see Colt play.”
My brother had spoiled me rotten every chance he got during that trip, his smile wide and boyish every time he saw me in the stands. It’s the same looks he always had growing up—the relief and excitement that someone is there just for him.
I wish I knew what that felt like.
Tom doesn’t comment, just continues whatever he’s doing, the silence settling comfortably over us and allowing me to really look at the man before me.
Not that it’s a hardship.
I’m fascinated by the way his arms flex as he drains the pasta, tossing the contents in the strainer before returning it to the stove. His movements are elegant.
Precise.
Competent.
And is there anything sexier than a competent man?
“Here you go,” he says, sliding a plate in front of me—the vision of him serving me no less appealing.
“Thanks,” I manage but it’s breathy like I’ve been running a race instead of watching a man cook in my barely used kitchen.
“Once we have more groceries,” he says pointedly as he stands across from me with his own plate, “I’ll be able to make a better menu.”
Having someone cook for me sounds great, and company during those meals sounds even better except…
“A menu,” I repeat, with noodles piping hot and twirled on my fork as I try and process what this means.
“To eat.”
“Yes, I understand that but…” I swallow hard. Tom Oakden is great to look at and I’m sure he’s very capable, but he can’t live here.
He cannot.
I have a routine and deadlines and things that cannot be done with him in my house.
Unable to make my tongue work, I resort to motioning around the kitchen before dropping my non-fork-holding hand to the counter.
“It’s temporary,” he says, his sable eyes never leaving mine. “It’ll be over before you know it.”