Page 43 of The Attraction

I think I need a shower now to cool off.

I get dressed in my thick cotton pants and a long-sleeve cotton top; it’s the time of year where I just want to feel cozy as the wind outside starts to get that slight chill to it. October is the start of when we forget what summer was and get ready for the bleakness of winter. By the time I have showered and dressed, my temper has subsided, and I know I need to go out and apologize to Forrest. I can’t tell him what to do in his own home. I’m here as a guest, and as much as I hate it, I need to be polite to him.

The smell of food as I walk toward the kitchen reminds me of the text messages he sent earlier that I had forgotten about.

“I told you not to cook for me,” I say, seeing him dishing up two plates of pasta.

“And I ignored you,” he replies, not even flinching.

“That’s kinda rude.” I sit down on the stool because I don’t want to sit at the table tonight. I’m not in the mood for formal; casual is all I can take.

“So is ignoring my part of the text where I mentioned that being naked in the apartment works for me.” He pushes the plate toward me with a fork and a spoon.

“You’re hilarious.” I pick up the pepper grinder and crack it over the top of what looks like fettuccini carbonara.

“I’ve known that for years, but everyone thinks that Flynn is the clown of the family.” Walking around the counter, he takes the stool next to me, and I realize I didn’t think this through very well. Sitting at the counter, he is way closer than he would’ve been at the table.

“No arguments that Flynn is a clown,” I say, taking the first bite, and the rich creamy sauce is outstanding. “But I think you might give him a run in the cooking department. This is so good.” And without realizing it, he has defused our argument from before, and it’s like we are back in our bubble of the two of us chatting and joking together.

He shrugs. “Thank you, but there is no way I could cook for more than two people at once. To be honest, I think you might be the only one I have ever cooked for.”

“What do you mean, surely that’s not possible.” My shocked voice makes him stop eating to explain.

“When you have a brother and best friend who were both chefs in their earlier career, there isn’t much need for me to cook. And before they moved back here from Australia, I didn’t really have the need to cook for anyone. Every time I go home, Mum wants to cook, and when I catch up with friends in the finance world, it’s at a restaurant or a bar. Mainly because the meal is more about talking work or trying to schmooze someone to get them as a client. It just wasn’t my style. And when you have money, it’s easier to order food if you are entertaining someone at home…” His voice trails off as he tries to describe when he brings a woman home to his apartment.

“You mean when you bring a woman home to spend the night,” I offer, trying to help him out.

“Something like that.” He takes another forkful of pasta to try to cover up his awkwardness.

“But you cook for yourself, so why don’t you just order food in for that too? Or hire a chef?” I ask the obvious.

“Because I like to cook and…” He looks down again at his plate.

“And what, finish that sentence,” I say, poking him in the arm with my finger.

“And then I know what is in the meal, and I can control what I eat and the quality.” As I look at him, there is the faintest blush on his cheek that I’ve never seen before.

“Why does that embarrass you?” Softly, I put my hand on his arm now.

“It doesn’t, it’s just I’ve never shared that part of my life before. I exist in here, in my world, and don’t have to share that with anyone. It’s probably why I’ve been single for so long. I don’t know that anyone would cope with my OCD and control issues on certain things.” Yet here he is voicing it all to me.

“Then why are you looking for someone to share your life with? Are you searching for anyone who will put up with your pain-in-the-ass personality?” I question him.

“Not just anyone, someone special—annoying, but special,” he mumbles as he pushes his stool back and stands, grabbing his plate as I hadn’t realized he had already finished his pasta.

As I continue eating my dinner, the same thought keeps running around my head until it gets to be too much, and I stop him as he is walking from the kitchen toward his office.

“Forrest.” He turns to look back at me from the door. “Why do you cook for me then?” I gulp at the heated stare he gives me.

“Because you are someone special, Harper. Good night.” He closes the door behind him as he retreats into his office, and I am left standing here, trying to ignore the blissful feeling that ran through my body at his words.

“Shit. I can’t be your someone special,” I whisper.

* * *

Sitting at the desk that Forrest had set up for me, I’m trying to distract my thoughts with work. It works for him when he wants to avoid this wholeusthing. So why isn’t it working that way for me too?

I decide to call the one person who won’t judge me. I mean, she will be pissed at me but would never judge me.

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