Page 44 of Over You
And where Spencer was concerned, my heart only ever said yes.
17
Spencer
Later that night, Georgia sliced tomatoes by the sink while colossal tears rolled down my face from the asshole onion I was cutting.
“Son of a bitch.” I dabbed my eyes with my wrist. “Onions are the skunk of the vegetable world.”
Georgia laughed. “The skunk of the. . . Wow. I had forgotten how ridiculous you are.”
“I prefer the word fun.” I chopped again. Onion jizz shot in my eye, and I dropped the knife to the counter. “Alright, you dick. You win.”
Her hip bumped mine, and she nudged me out of the way. Georgia Anne diced that onion like Chef Ramsey—without a single tear.
“Now, how come my eyes bleed and yours don’t even turn pink?”
“Contacts. Remember?” She grinned before laying the knife on the cutting board and scooping a handful of onions into her palm and tossing them into the pot. They hissed. Oil bubbled and popped.
“I’m not sure how your Bolognese is gonna taste, but I still say you made the best Ramen Noodles.”
“Ramen Noodles—that’s all we ate for two years straight. I won’t even touch them out of pure principle.”
I proudly pushed my shoulders back. “It’s still a staple in my diet.”
“As are Whoppers; I’m sure.” She faked a gag. “I never understood how you ate those nasty malt balls.”
Standing in a tiny kitchen with her again was surreal in the best of ways. It was like we hadn’t missed a beat—almost.
Georgia swiped a hand through her hair, and a piece of onion stuck in the dark strands. I moved closer to grab it. Our eyes locked. My gaze strayed to the perfect bow of her lips begging to be kissed.
This was thealmostpart of not missing a beat.
Tender touches and kisses were tentative, and I hated it. Nothing had ever been tentative between us. Sure, we’d made love earlier, but there was no asking for permission with that. It just happened. My current situation of wanting to take her bottom lip between my teeth was different.
My hand landed on the curve of her waist. Her gaze dropped to my mouth just before she spun toward the stove. “I don’t want to burn the garlic.” She took a wooden spoon from a drawer and scraped the bottom of the simmering pot.
I hopped onto the counter. My feet shook so hard my left Van slipped off. Then my right.A high or her. Chose motherfucker.I just had to convince my dopamine-hungry brain that I didn’t need the drugs. Simple. I nearly rolled my eyes at that thought.
“You’re in school?” I blurted, needing a distraction.
“Yeah. I figured it would be good to keep myself busy.” She grabbed the cutting board and raked the tomatoes into the pot.
“I’m proud of you.” I swallowed. “Babe.”
“Thanks.” She stirred for a second. “What happened earlier. . .”Shit. Here we went.“I don’t think we should get too comfortable.”
I lifted my chin. “Yeah. Sure.” Then I pushed off the counter and went to the pantry. I didn’t know how to do this with her. I didn’twantto know how to do this with her. “Where are the noodles?”
“Second shelf from the top.”
I scanned past the bags of Jasmine rice and multi-grain, fiber-rich cereals, then grabbed a box of spaghetti and set it on the counter beside her.
She focused on the boiling marinara with an intent that was nothing short of obvious avoidance. “Anyway, I’m sure there’s a girl who’d be heartbroken if we got too comfortable, so it’s better if we—”
It was always drugs and girls. “I’ve never cheated on you.”
She sprinkled salt over the sauce, nostrils flaring.
