Page 28 of The Bright Side of Brooding
Chapter Thirteen
Nick
My quiet lets me see people. When I catch the quality of a person, I’m usually right. Then you stormed up to my door and shoved your dishes at me, pressing morsels into my hand and sustenance into my soul. You’ve fed me far more than you realize. And me? I thought it’d be pyrite, but there you are, pure gold.
Inever imagined this moment would come so soon. Not that I didn’t want it—let me be clear on that. But I didn’t think we’d be here, kissing in her kitchen, her hands on my arms and the soft curve of her cheeks under my thumbs.
I no longer wondered whether Summer was interested. At least on this, the most basic, physical level. And I took that news and ran with it.
We naturally came up for air, the dizzying slide of wanting pulling my mind in all directions. Her gaze inspected me as mine did her, relishing the color in her cheeks and the expression she wore—desire? Satisfaction, even? Couldn’t quite be that, as we’d only kissed for moments.
“Would you like a muffin?” she asked, her voice sweet and melodic, as always.
“Yes.”No.I didn’t want a muffin. Muffins were useless, and I didn’t eat much grain, typically. But right now, I’d eat anything she set in front of me.
Her brow furrowed. “Actually, I could make you something else. I made the muffins to take into work later, but I have eggs. I could do an omelet?”
A smile tugged at my lips. “You don’t have to make me something else. You’ve already made muffins, and they’ll no doubt be the best muffins I’ve ever tasted.”
The way we were standing, talking in low voices just inches apart, must’ve looked ridiculous from the outside. But she hadn’t taken her hands off me, and I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize a moment of her touch. I hadn’t been touched like this in too long—far too long. And it wasn’t just fraught with heat and seeking pleasure, but with a warmth she brought along with her. Thelife.Even the care of offering something other than a muffin, which I would’ve eaten just to please her. Somehow in the last twelve hours, the thought of doing something for her had consumed me.
This need of hers to feed me, it spoke to me on some kind of primal, desperate level. The part of me that hadn’t been cared for in so long. Gran had cooked for me when I was kid, but since then, I’d been on my own. And after that, she’d been my support—maybe odd for a twenty- and thirty-something man, but she’d been my ally in life after I’d lost my parents and she’d lost her son and daughter-in-law. Being taken care of by Summer, even in this small way she had no intention of meaning so much to me, shook me.
I dropped my hands, so I stood just looking at her, wondering what she’d do if I slid my arms around her waist and pressed her to me fully.
“That’s kind, but I forgot about your meal plans and stuff for a minute. Would an omelet work better? Tell me honestly, please. I don’t mind making one—it’ll take ten minutes, max.”
Her bright blue eyes blinked back at me, and a familiar longing jumped in my chest.
“Yes. An omelet would be good.”And yes, I want ten more minutes with you.
She nodded, what I hoped was satisfaction pulling those kissing lips into a lovely, soul-stealing smile. My God, everything she did, I liked. I’d never gone from hardly knowing a person to thinking like that. Not once.What a damn fool.
“One condition—you put me to work.”
She raised a brow, attempting an irritated glare. Trouble was, I’d seen the real thing and this one didn’t hold a candle to an actual irritated Summer. “Fine.”
For the next few minutes, we worked together. I cracked eggs into a bowl while she chopped part of an onion, a tomato, some red pepper, and mushrooms. After sautéing them, she poured in the beaten eggs, and I hung by her like the rapt audience I was.
“What makes you love cooking so much?” I asked, resisting the urge to trace the shell of her ear. I’d done it once before, just last night. I’djustkissed her, and yet I couldn’t assume a few kisses meant I had the right to touch her however I wanted.
Wouldn’t that be nice.
She nudged the side of the pan, adjusting the heat just a bit, before answering. “I find it satisfying. I like the process of taking a bunch of disparate things and making it one delicious dish. I also like variety and sticking to a budget, so embracing cooking my own food is something that facilitates both of those things.”
Something about the way she ended made me think there might be something else. I waited and watched her maneuver the omelet, hoping she’d tell me. I didn’t want to prod, but I knew whatever else she would say would be the real reason—the most important one.
“Cheese?” she asked, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Just a bit.”
A few minutes later, we’d settled into seats at the dining table. She sat at the head, just like last night, and I sat at her right, where Mr. Meier had been. Another thing I wanted to ask her about. But first…
“What else were you going to say? About why you like to cook?”
Her fork paused halfway to her mouth and she leaned back. She pressed her lips together, thinking.
Now I knew it mattered, whatever it was.
