Page 73 of Keep Him Like Secrets

Admittedly, each time I called her down to the site had been for purely selfish reasons. There was nothing going on that I couldn’t deal with on my own. In fact, her paperwork naming her a silent partner meant I didn’t really need to involve her in any of it, unless there was something she expressly wanted to be called in on.

Still, each time I called, she showed up.

Sometimes with Bastian in tow.

But lately, almost always with that damn driver of hers.

Unlike Bass, who seemed more focused on Saff’s behavior, Serano’s keen-eyed gaze seemed zeroed in on me.

So much so that I made sure I didn’t stand too close or touch her like I wanted to.

I was starting to think that the connection we’d shared that last time she was at my apartment was wholly one-sided.

Until I was standing in my kitchen—home early on a Saturday night since Teresa cut out early for a family birthday—trying to distract myself from obsessively thinking about Saff by doing something I hadn’t done in months: cooking dinner, and in my periphery, I caught the movement as the doors slid open.

Not another soul in the world had a key other than me.

And Saff.

Even Teresa had to borrow mine if she needed to pop by my place.

I froze mid-chop, watching as Saff stepped slowly out, brows pinched as the sound of my music and the scent of cooking onions and garlic met her nose.

Her head turned, looking right at me.

“You cook?”

“I do,” I said, going ahead and letting myself drink her in.

She was casual in a pair of gray leggings, sneakers, and a black tee. Her longbluehair spilled across her shoulders.

“What do you cook?”

“Depends on the night. Tonight, I am cooking creamy garlic and onion pasta with shrimp. I’ll have more than enough for two.”

Saff shifted her feet, her plans to get in, get me in bed, then get back out clearly thwarted. But her hand went to her stomach, and I watched her suck in a greedy breath.

Whether she wanted to admit it or not, her interest was piqued.

“There’s wine, if you want it,” I said, gesturing toward the open bottle of chardonnay the sauce was going to require.

“I’m more of a whiskey person,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the wine.

“Help yourself,” I said, gesturing toward the mini bar in the dining area beside the kitchen.

She did just that, pouring a double, then moving to stand at the far end of the black marble rainfall island, watching me as she raised her glass for a sip.

“Where’d you learn to cook? Your mom?”

“No. My mom didn’t cook.”

“Ever?”

“I was lucky if there was anything edible in the house,” I admitted. “Half of what I ate came from the free school lunch and the occasional stolen bag of chips or candy from the corner store.”

I never told anyone about my mom.

But something told me that Saff would understand. If not relate.

---