Page 174 of here

“The eating disorder?”

“The safety.” A small breath ghosts over my skin. “You’d cook for the whole frat house, and I could eat. Food didn’t seem so… terrifying when you were around.”

My chest tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were Brandon Milton.” She lets out a small chuckle. “Confident, sexy, cocky, the guy who could make a five-course meal in a beer-stained kitchen. Why would you want someone who couldn’t even eat a fucking sandwich without panicking?”

I tangle my fingers in her hair, fighting the urge to shake some sense into her. “You really think that’s what I saw?”

“What else could you have seen?” Her fingers tremble against my skin, trying to make a pattern.

“I saw the girl who’d sit in the kitchen while I cooked, actually talking to me instead of trying to get in my pants.” I pin her hand to my chest, letting my heartbeat speak for me. “The one who’d help clean up after parties without being asked. Who knew the difference between dicing and julienne before I even explained it.”

“That’s just?—”

“The girl who’d beat me at beer pong. Who’d correct my accounting homework even though we weren’t even friends. And yeah, maybe I noticed how you’d only eat when I cooked.” My thumb traces her bottom lip. “But mostly, I noticed how fucking brilliant you were. How you never took anyone’s shit, including mine. My beautiful and delicious cupcake.”

She blinks rapidly, her lashes wet. “Why cupcake?”

“Because.” I trace the curve of her shoulder, memories of Mom flooding back.

The way she’d dance around the kitchen, calling Dad her ‘tiramisu’ because it was the dessert that won her over on their first date. How she’d ruffle Elijah’s hair and call him ‘sugar snap’ for his obsession with fresh peas straight from the garden. Nova… she was Mom’s ‘buttercup’, though she barely remembers it now.

“Mom used to say that food names were like little love letters.” The words scrape past the tightness in my throat. “She’d tell us that calling someone by their favorite food was the purest way to say ‘I love you’ without actually saying it.”

Her fingers go rigid. “And cupcake…”

“Second week of college.” My thumb traces circles on her palm. “You were in the library. Someone left a cupcake on your table… Probably some guy trying to impress you.”

“I don’t even remember that.”

“I do.” My voice is quieter now. “Because I watched you push it around for an hour before you finally took a bite. And when you did? You closed your eyes like you were bracing for impact.”

“You stood there like a creep watching me?”

“A charming, panty-dropping creep.” I nod, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. “I wanted to see you enjoy food. And it worked.”

Her breath catches, eyes flickering between mine, searching. As if she’s seeing me, really seeing me.

“Your eyes lit up at that first taste. You actually smiled. And it wasn’t that fake one you gave everyone else.” My mouth lingers against her knuckles, silent devotion in every second. “It was the first time I’d seen you genuinely enjoy food.” I stalked her way before she even knew I existed. “After that, you stumbled into my kitchen. I did hope to have the chance to talk to you.”

Her breath catches. “That’s why you…”

“Yeah.” I swallow against the lump rising in my throat. “Mom would’ve loved that, said it was fate or something. She believed food was just another language for love.”

“Brandon…” Her voice wavers.

“So yeah, cupcake.” I brush away the tear tracking down her cheek. “That’s why.”

“Brandon?”

“Hmm?”

“I am hungry.”

Those three words, from her, mean more than any ‘I love you’ could. “Then let’s feed you, cupcake.”

The laptop screen blurs as I scroll through another potential venue. Too small. Next. Too far from downtown. Next. Too?—

---