Twenty-one Way Down We Go.
Adrian Rossetti
T
he drive away from the store is quieter than the one there.
Lily hasn't said much since we left the parking lot, and I've noticed. Of course I've fucking noticed. She sits beside me with her hands folded in her lap, watching the scenery pass through the window, and every now and then I catch the slightest pull of her mouth.
A frown.
Barely there.
Anyone else might miss it.
I don't.
And I know exactly where it came from.
Daniele.
The thought should irritate me. Maybe it does, a little, because I don't like the idea of anyone getting under Lily's skin. But underneath that is something warmer, something I have absolutely no business enjoying as much as I do.
She was jealous.
Of that fucking cashier.
Because of me.
My grip shifts against the steering wheel as I let the thought sit there for a moment, and something hot spreads through my chest.
It's ridiculous, really. I shouldn't be pleased by it.
I shouldn't care that Lily noticed another woman flirting with me, and I definitely shouldn't be enjoying the little frown she's been carrying around ever since.
But I fucking am.
The realization settles deeper, and I glance toward her again.
She catches me looking and immediately turns her attention back toward the window.
Interesting.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
The answer comes too quickly.
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my eyes on the road. "Nothing?"
She gives me a tight-lipped little smile that does absolutely nothing to convince me.
"Nothing," she repeats.
I almost laugh.
"Sure, angel." My voice carries just enough sternness to make her glance at me again. "Now say it."
Her brows draw together. "Say what?"
"The truth."
"I am."
"No, you're not." I glance at her briefly before returning my attention to the road. "I know when you're lying to me, Lily."
Her lips press together.
There it is.
She folds her arms across her chest and turns back toward the window, her stubborn little silence answering me better than words ever could.
"Nothing," she mutters again.
I shake my head, fighting the amusement pulling at my mouth.
She's jealous.
The thought comes back, and fucking hell, I like it.
More than I should.
There's something almost satisfying about knowing she cared enough to be bothered by another woman looking at me. It makes something possessive in me stir, something I usually keep buried beneath a thousand layers of control.
I glance over at her again.
She's still staring outside, pretending the trees are suddenly the most fascinating thing she's ever seen.
I let the silence stretch for another few seconds before speaking.
"She wasn't my type anyway."
That gets her.
Her head turns slowly, and one eyebrow lifts.
"And?"
I bite back a smile.
"And what?"
She looks at me expectantly, clearly waiting.
"What is your type, then?"
Fuck.
I should probably leave that question alone.
Instead, I let my mouth curve into a small smirk.
"I don't know, angel."
I glance at her.
Then I let my eyes linger.
Just a second longer than necessary.
Long enough for my gaze to travel over her before settling back on her face, hoping like hell she understands exactly what I'm saying without making me say it.
"You tell me."
The change in her is immediate.
Her eyes widen slightly before dropping, and a flush creeps across her cheeks, spreading higher when she realizes I'm still watching her.
There it is.
That fucking blush.
And suddenly, the drive home doesn't feel nearly as long as it did a minute ago.
°°°°°
By the time we get back to the house, Lily is already in the kitchen.
Somehow, I am too.
I'm not entirely sure how that happened.
I own sweatpants, apparently. Black ones, because I have standards, and a plain black T-shirt that I changed into after we got home.
Lily is wearing an apron tied loosely around her waist, her hair pulled back enough to keep it out of her face while she moves around the kitchen with the kind of confidence I've never seen anywhere else.
And, somehow, there is an apron tied around me too.
I look down at it once.
Then at her.
She catches me staring and smiles.
"Don't complain."
"I wasn't going to."
"You were thinking about it."
"I'm always thinking about complaining."
That earns me a quiet laugh, and I find myself watching her for another second before she turns back toward the counter.
"Adrian, can you cut the potatoes, please?"
I look at the bowl she's pointing toward.
Then at her.
"You're giving me orders now?"
Her smile turns hesitant for half a second, like she's wondering if she's crossed some invisible line.
I hate that.
"Please?" she adds.
I pick up the knife. "Fine."
And I cut the fucking potatoes.
It turns out that's how the afternoon goes.
"Adrian, can you wash the lettuce?"
I wash the lettuce.
"I'll dry it. Can you pass me the-"
"Here."
She barely finishes before I'm handing it to her.
"Can you grab the graham crackers and cream cheese?"
I'm already walking toward the pantry.
"Adrian, could you-"
"Yeah."
Whatever she asks, I do.
No complaints.
Well, maybe one or two, but nothing that makes her stop asking.
And I don't know when it happens, but somewhere between chopping vegetables and opening packages and watching her make an absolute fucking mess of the kitchen, I stop caring that I'm doing any of it.
Her music plays quietly from somewhere nearby, soft enough that we can still talk over it, and her laughter keeps finding its way through the room.
That sound does something to me.
It's becoming one of those things I notice without meaning to.
Lily laughs when I tell her I'm cutting the potatoes too large.
She laughs when I tell her the bread dough looks like shit.
She laughs even harder when she throws a little flour at me and immediately looks horrified by her own bravery.
"You did not just do that."
Her eyes widen.
"I-"
I scoop some flour from the counter and blow it straight toward her.
She squeals, stumbling backward as a cloud of white dust settles across her hair and face.
"Adrian!"
I grin.
Actually fucking grin.
She stares at me for half a second before her mouth twitches.
"You're horrible."
"Probably."
She dips her fingers into the flour.
I point at her immediately. "Don't."
Her smile grows.
"Lily."
She throws it.
I catch most of it against my shirt, and then she's laughing so hard she has to grab the counter.
I should be annoyed.
Instead, I'm standing there watching her laugh, feeling something strange and unfamiliar settle beneath my ribs.
Eventually, we get the kitchen back under control.
The pasta, chicken, and potatoes go into the oven to stay warm until everyone arrives, while Lily finishes the homemade bread. She kneads the dough with both hands, flour scattered across the counter and dusting her arms.
I'm standing beside her when she suddenly reaches toward me.
Before I can ask what she's doing, her palm presses against my cheek.
I freeze.
She pulls it away, leaving a white streak of flour across my skin.
Her eyes widen.
"Oh."
I stare at her.
She bites her lip.
"Sorry."
"You're not sorry."
Her lips twitch.
"No."
I grab a pinch of flour.
Her eyes widen again.
"Adrian, don't you dare."
I blow it toward her instead.
She laughs, immediately ducking her head, and I watch the flour settle across her hair.
I should probably say something.
I don't.
Because she looks fucking happy.
And for some reason, that matters more than anything else.
I don't notice Mary come into the kitchen.
Not until later.
She must have been standing there for at least a moment because when I finally glance toward the doorway, she's gone again.
I think nothing of it.
Until she returns.
"Adrian."
I look over.
Mary is holding her phone.
"What?"
She approaches with an expression that is suspiciously close to amusement.
"I thought you might like this."
She turns the screen toward me.
And I stop.
It's a photograph of Lily and I.
Neither of us had noticed Mary taking it.
Lily is standing at the counter with her hands covered in dough and flour, her cheeks dusted white, her hair slightly messy from the chaos we've created. I'm beside her, equally covered in flour, and-
Fuck.
I'm looking at her.
Not at the food.
Not at the mess.
At her.
There's something in my expression that I don't recognize immediately. Something softer than I'm accustomed to seeing on my own face.
Fond, maybe.
The word makes me uncomfortable.
I stare at the picture longer than I should.
Mary watches me.
"Send me that," I say.
Her eyebrows rise.
I hold out my hand.
She smiles knowingly and taps her phone.
A second later, mine buzzes.
I look down at the photograph again.
I don't know why I want it.
I just know I do.
Lily is completely unaware of any of this. She's busy cleaning flour from her hands when she suddenly looks at the clock.
"Oh."
I glance toward her. "What?"
"I need to get ready."
"For what?"
She gives me a look.
"Adrian. People are coming."
"I'm aware."
She looks down at herself, then at me, and gestures vaguely between us.
"And you should probably get ready too."
I look down at my sweatpants and T-shirt.
"What the fuck is wrong with this?"
Her lips press together, fighting a smile.
"Nothing. But you probably shouldn't greet everyone dressed like that."
"I own a suit."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is that you've been wearing that for hours."
I stare at her.
She smiles.
"I'm going to change," she announces. "You should too."
Before I can argue, she's already untied her apron and is heading toward the kitchen doorway.
"Lily."
She turns.
"What?"
I gesture toward the kitchen.
"You're leaving this mess?"
She looks around.
Then looks back at me.
"You made half of it."
"Bullshit."
Her laugh echoes through the kitchen again.
"I'll see you downstairs."
And then she disappears.
I stand there for a moment, staring after her.