Chapter 26
Emmett
I
haven’t had anyone, let alone a girl, in my apartment since Riley left. The place is mostly for sleeping, making food, and showering, but I do pride myself on my cleanliness. Bringing Drew here, without knowing it was going to happen more than five minutes ago, doesn’t bother me.
Our apartments have an identical layout, so I don’t waste time showing her around. Instead, I walk us into the kitchen, and tap a spot on the counter as my way of telling her to hop up.
She complies, backing up into the counter, hoisting herself up with her arms. I help her by lightly pushing the backs of her thighs as she is mid-hop.
“Do you know how to make waffles?” I ask. Not letting my hands linger on her legs, even though I want to.
“I know how to put frozen waffles into the toaster. But that’s also not as easy for me these days.” I sense the hint of humor in her voice when she mentions this, leading me to believe she is headed towards the space to make light of a situation that has probably been heavy on her mind.
“Well, my waffles do not require a toaster.”
“Wait, you cook?” I’m standing directly in front of her, able to see her eyes widen at the realization.
“Don’t act so surprised.”
Despite my asking, she looks dumbfounded.
“No offense, but I took you for the kind of guy who orders pizza six out of seven nights.”
I laugh at the assumption, also not wanting her to see the leftover pizza in my fridge, from two different places, that is definitely no longer in the window of time to be safely consumed.
“I actually really love to cook. I’m pretty good at it too.”
Drew cocks her head, eye-to-eye with me, as if challenging my last statement. “Prove it.”
She is sitting in front of me, knees at my stomach. I put my hands on the counter, arms on each side of her thighs, enclosing her in, leaning into her challenge.
“Watch me.”
We stare into each other’s eyes, our lips just a few inches away. I think I see her sneak a glance at my lips, but it might have just been a blink.
My mind is moving at a million miles per minute, trying to read her mind, hear what she is thinking, hoping I’m having the effect on her that she is having on me.
It has been a week and a half since the shooting, yet so much has happened in the past ten days. I feel like I’ve known Drew on a level I don’t know anyone else. I am slowly coming to the realization that I don’t want to know what days are like without her, learning about her, protecting her, helping her heal however she needs me to.
Wondering who is going to break this intense eye contact first, I tell myself to let her make the first move. I want her to feel like she is in complete control of whatever happens, or doesn’t happen, because that is what she deserves.
To my surprise, she initiates the initial movement, bringing her forehead to mine, only having to make the subtlest incline because we are already so close.
My skin warms at the touch of hers, closing my eyes, breathing in her citrusy, sweet scent. I inch my hands from resting on the counter closer to where the backs of her legs meet my counter, resisting any urge to grab her legs and wrap them around my waist.
I want to feel her.
Feel all of her.
Whatever she is willing to give me.
The good, the bad, the inside, the out.
Then, breaking the bond between us, I hear her stomach growl.
Blood rushes up to her cheeks, turning her head and bringing her head back upright to find my eyes.
“So about those waffles…”
I give her a wink. “Coming right up.”
I pull out flour, sugar, and baking powder from my pantry; milk, eggs, and butter from the fridge, and then return to my place in front of Drew to bend down for two mixing bowls, a whisk, and the waffle iron from the cabinet below where she is seated on my counter. I use my hands to usher her legs to the side, looking up to catch her looking around my place, probably trying to make similar observations I made when I was in her apartment. I grab what I need and closing the cabinet, letting her legs swing back to where they were. When I stand up in front of her, she looks back at me
“Can I do anything?” She asks.
I pre-heat the oven to a low temperature. “You’re doing it. I like an audience.”
“Emmett, are you a control-freak or something?”
I laugh out loud. “Not at all.” Or at least I didn’t think so, until now. I have never had someone join me in the kitchen. “Okay, okay. You can hold the bowls.”
“That’s it?” I hand her the two bowls. “Actually, that’s probably a good idea. I’m a pretty shitty cook.” She grabs the bowls from me, setting them down in her lap. “You got it, boss.”
Now it is my turn to get flustered. All the blood in my body eases into my chest and up my neck at the sound of playfulness in her tone.
I love this side of her, I think to myself.
I plug in the waffle iron and grab the larger mixing bowl from Drew to whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder.
As I measure the ingredients, pouring them into the bowl, I sneak glances towards her. She is watching me now as I move, rather than looking around. It is the same way she watched me at the bar.
Both in the kitchen and when I’m at work, my movements are natural, not even having to think about what I’m doing or my next move.
I turn to her and say, “Small bowl, please.”
She hands me the bowl she is holding in her lap with a smile, as if proud of a job well-done.
I pour in the milk, crack the eggs, and whisk them together.
“Do you want to do the next step?”
As if asking her to disarm a bomb, her smile disappears.
“I don’t want to mess anything up.”
I let out a chuckle because she is so damn cute. “I trust you.”
She hops off the counter, shrinking back to her stature of being a foot shorter than me, and she finds a place next to me, facing my work area.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Pour this mixture into that one while I melt the butter,” I direct, pointing from the small bowl to the big bowl.
“That’s it?”
“I can’t release all the control.”
She laughs and follows my direction, doing a wonderful job. Once again, smiling at her job well-done. I put the butter into a small bowl, and put it in the microwave.
I hand her a utensil to scrape the residual mixture into the large bowl and pay extra attention to the timer counting down on the microwave, not wanting the beep to catch her off guard.
Before the microwave hits zero, I open up the door, grabbing the butter and gently whisking it.
“Anything else?” She asks.
“Nope.” I stand behind her, never moving too quickly, and gently put my hands underneath her arms, lifting her up as I turn, setting her back on her spot on the counter.
The waffle iron is hot and ready, so I begin scooping out cups of batter into the center before closing the iron. Each one is going to take around two minutes, so I decide to use those moments to close the space between me and Drew and ask her any question that pops into my head.
I lean on my elbow resting on the counter space next to her, the waffle iron between us.
“What’s your favorite movie?” She turns to face me, looking a little confused.
“Um… I don’t know. Probably Scream?” She says it as a question, not sure why I changed the subject so fast. “I also like the Marvel movies. What’s your favorite movie?”
“You’ll have your turn to ask your questions once this light turns red,” I point to the waffle iron, “and I put the next scoop of batter in.”
Catching on to the game I’m making up as I go, she nods, ready for my next question.
“What’s your full name?”
“Drew Kathryn Thomas.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Black.”
“Of course it is. Favorite band?”
“Escape the Fate.”
“With Craig Mabbitt or Ronnie Radke?”
Her eyes are wide. “You listen to Escape the Fate?”
“Not your turn.”
She rolls her eyes, my stomach flicking in as a response.
“Both.”
“Favorite author?” She thinks about this one the longest.
After a few moments, she says, “Either Scarlett St. Clair or Tessa Bailey, I can’t choose.”
“I’ll let that slide, even though a favorite usually means one,” I reply. She laughs and gives me a light push on the shoulder. Not wanting to waste any of my time, I quickly ask, “What’s your favorite scent?”
“Yours.”
This stops me in my tracks. Stunned by both her answer and the realization that she wants to let me in.
Wants me to know her.
And damn, do I want to.
Before I can respond, she gives me the most mysterious glance with a smirk on her face. Mysterious because I don’t know what is going through that unpredictable brain of hers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the light on the waffle iron turn red, telling me that my two minutes is up.
Finding a confidence I only feel in her vicinity, “What is my scent, Drew?” I break our gaze, pushing myself off the counter to take the fresh waffle out and put it on a baking sheet before placing the sheet in the oven to keep warm.
I scoop more batter in, closing the iron, starting the timer again.
“No, no, no,” she says. “It’s my turn.”