Page 29 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
“But yeah,” I added, shrugging. “I used to cook. I tried to, anyway.”
“I used to date someone who hated the smell of garlic and onions,” I said casually, reaching for another clove. “It’s hardto cook when you take those out of the equation. Every recipe seems to start with them.” I pressed the blade down and the clove flattened.
My mind flicked, uninvited, to an old kitchen. To a guy with a wrinkle of disgust on his face, waving away a pan of roasted garlic like it was poison. The same guy who once asked if I could ‘tone it down’ in the spice department.
The same guy who dumped me over brunch, between an omelet and the check.
He was a jerk. Didn’t even remember whether I used milk in my coffee.
I didn’t realize Liam had asked something until I looked up and saw him watching me.
“Sorry,” I said. “What was that?”
His expression shifted, flustered, like he thought he’d stepped too far. “Nothing. It’s okay if you don’t want to answer that.”
“Answer what?”
“I asked what happened with the guy who hated the smell of basic cooking ingredients.”
His fingers tapped the edge of the cutting board once.
I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “He was a jerk. We stopped dating.”
Not a lie. But not exactly the whole truth either.
He nodded once and turned back to the cutting board.
I exhaled slowly, heart still tight in my chest.
Oil hissed; the onions went glassy. The garlic bloomed for thirty seconds, then a splash of wine and a quick simmer. Steam fogged the range; the sauce tightened.
“There’ll be enough for leftovers,” he said after a beat. “I’ll portion them out, single servings. You can have them for lunch tomorrow.”
I blinked. “Liam, you don’t have to—”
“I have to save you from yourself.”
I smirked. “You’re that confident I’ll want it again?”
He didn’t even glance up. “Who said I’d let you have any tonight?”
“Jerk,” I muttered.
He laughed again. “That seems to be your favorite word today.”
I tilted my head, deadpan. “It’s efficient. Covers a lot of ground.”
He stacked the portions in the fridge and clicked off the light. “See you in the morning.”
“Good night.” I headed down the hall.
Somewhere out there, the city was stretching awake, but I’d been working for hours. My room was still dim, blinds half-drawn, laptop casting a faint glow across the duvet. The distant hum of traffic filtered in from the street below, the world just beginning to move.
I was catching up on a few project notes before my first call. I’d already drained one mug of coffee and answered all my emails before I realized I hadn’t heard a sound from the rest of the apartment.
I sat back, rubbed a hand across my face, and stretched. Just as I started to lean over to close my laptop, I heard it.
“Claire?”
