Page 69 of #Awestruck

I was a bit worried about it because during a previous conversation he’d said to me, “I was banned from using the stove or oven for years. And I’m not going to tell you the whole story, but it was justified.”

He shrugged. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“But you cooked instead?” He laughed at my teasing. I laid my purse on the counter and went in to see what he was working on.

“It’s chicken stir-fry. The YouTube video made it seem easy enough.”

It was endearing to see him fussing over a frying pan, and I jumped up on the island counter to watch him. “Do you need any help?”

“I’ve got this. The table is already set, and it looks like dinner is almost done. I just need to get a serving spoon ...” He turned around and walked to me. He picked me up by the waist and moved me over two feet in order to get into the drawer under my legs. Like it was no big deal.

I loved this feeling—where a man could lift me like I was a bag of flour that needed to be shifted over.

It was ... heady.

“Let’s eat!” he said.

I jumped off the counter and followed him. He pulled out my chair for me when I went to sit down. It was something I was becoming accustomed to.

Evan served me first and then filled his own plate.

“It smells really good,” I told him with a smile.

Then I took a bite.

And I chewed it. And chewed it. And chewed it.

The chicken was rubbery, and I was worried whether it was cooked all the way through. And the more I thought about it, the more grossed out I became. But I couldn’t exactly spit it out because he was watching me, and it seemed so important to him that I like it.

Then the spiciness hit me. He had put in way too many hot peppers. It was burning my esophagus, and my eyes teared up.

My only saving grace was when Evan put a forkful in his mouth, and I could tell he was having the same reaction. “This is really awful,” he said, spitting it out into a napkin.

Relieved that I could finally do the same, I got rid of my mouthful and then drank down the entire glass of water on the table.

When I finished, I said, “It was really sweet of you to cook. And it wasn’t ... that bad.” Even though it totally had been.

“You have to stop doing that.”

Did he mean the lying? “Stop doing what?”

“Saying things that make me want to kiss you.”

“Me saying your cooking wasn’t that bad even though we both know it was makes you want to kiss me?”

He leaned forward and kissed me slowly, lingering, savoring me. The way I wasn’t able to enjoy his dinner. “I’m discovering that everything you say makes me want to kiss you.”

Oh. I was okay with that.

“I’m going to order some pizza. Any preference?”

“I like just about everything.”

He raised his eyebrows playfully at me, and I cleared the table while he made the call. “It’ll be here in half an hour ...” Evan was staring at his phone, and he’d seen something that upset him.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I just saw a message from one of my college teammates. About our old coach, Coach Oakley.” Evan had had a full ride to a Division 1 school—with the best college football team in the country. “He was just fired from his position.”

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