Page 53 of Crash
“Have you got pasta?” he asked, opening another cupboard and finding a frying pan.
“In the pantry,” I said, pointing to his right.
He strode over and began poking about, finding the things he needed to cook up whatever concoction he was planning. Once he was satisfied he had all his ingredients, he fired up the stovetop and placed the frying pan over the heat. Dousing the non-stick surface with olive oil, he turned to the chicken and whipped a knife from the block on the counter. Soon, the oil was crackling as it began to heat. He moved from one task to the next with an automation that told me he’d done this many times before. A dark thought popped into my mind, and I wondered how many women he’d cooked for before me. Shaking my head, I had to remind myself that was then and this was now.
“What?” heasked withone eyeon me[CS1]and one on the knifein his hand as he sliced.
“Nothing,” I squeaked.
“Vee, you can tell me shit, you know.”
“I know.” He’d told and implied it a few times now.
“Then what were you just thinking?”
“Was it that obvious?” I asked, lowering my gaze.
“You wear your heart on your sleeve,” he replied.
“Then what do you think I was thinking?” I peeked up at him shyly. Maybe I wasn’t as stealthy as I thought I was, or maybe it was just him who could see up and over the walls I’d built.
He smiled, his dimple appearing yet again. I wondered when I’d have the guts to just walk over there and plant a kiss right on it.
“I’ve never cooked for a woman before,” he said. “At least, not like this.”
“This?” I cocked my head to the side.
“On a date.”
My cheeks began to heat, and he smiled wider.
Watching him dice up the chicken and toss it into the frying pan, I still couldn’t believe he was really here, in my kitchen, cooking for me. Lincoln Hayes was a sensitive new age man through and through.
Sliding off the stool, I rounded the bench and watched what he was doing more closely. I was feeling braver[CS1]as the night wore on, and his closeness actually felt nice, even comfortable. He still made me nervous as all hell, but it was getting easier.
“You wanna help?” he asked with a smile.
“I’m fine with watching,” I replied. “You want this to be edible, right?”
He nudged me softly with his arm and shook his head. “Your wish is my command.”
I breathed deeply as the scent of cooking chickenandthe tang of pesto—as he opened the jar—filled the kitchenalongwith the sound of the pasta bubbling away in a pot. I wanted to ask him a lot of things, but knowing when, or what, to ask, was the million-dollar question[CS1]. I decided to ask the one that bothered me the most.
“What happened with your shoulder?”
Lincoln stilled for a moment, his shoulders tensing, before tossing the chicken over in the pan. He’d never spoken about it other than telling me that he’d had appointments. I didn’t even think.
“I’m sorry, I—” I shouldn’t have asked, it was obviously a sore point. His pride had been hurt.
“No, it’s okay. It was my own stupid fault.”
He shifted next to me, his arm brushing against mine. A small touch, but it sent my nerve endings into overdrive regardless.
“It was during a fight,” he went on.
“Who were you fighting?”
“Adrian DeSilva. He was just below me in points. Great fighter…tough.” He shifted next to me, turning the heat off underneath the pasta. “I felt the tear during a grapple. We were locked pretty tight, and the ref had to break us apart. It didn’t settle straight away, but I shook it off. I was in the lead and had the fight in the bag, so I pushed on. I knew I should’ve stopped, but I wanted the points. I wanted the win…” He trailed off with a shrug. “Stupid.”
