Page 27 of From the Ashes
You’re here because he makes you feel good.
You’re here because you have the right to try again.
“I am nervous too,” he confesses and I bite my lips. Ben would have never admitted something so vulnerable back then. He’s nervous too. Thank God. That makes two of us. It’s…refreshing to meet a man who plays his cards on the table.
I like that. A lot.
The floor keeps getting higher and a strong pull pushes my body toward his, my feet swaying little by little in his direction until the back of our hands brush against each other.
Twenty-seven.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine.
His hand brushes mine fully and his thumb strokes the back of mine gently. I let out a trembling exhale.
Thirty.
The door opens, and the spell breaks as he lifts his hand in the air, inviting me to enter. I’m met with the most beautiful flat I’ve ever seen. If I can even call this a flat. The entryway is huge with a console on the right and a tall mirror on the left. The floor is made with grey, shiny tiles, and from there, I notice his living room on the left and his open kitchen on the right. Huge windows circle the flat with little to no walls, making the space look like it’s never-ending, the city background melting with the contemporary and minimalist design of his home. Everything looks like it comes straight from a single millionaire cliché. Gray, expensive, ordered.
I remove my shoes like I do in any home I go in. It’s kind of a reflex when you have a little one playing on the floor all the time. Damn it, I forgot to wear white socks today. One is blue and the other is black. So much for trying to look put together. Well, he might know this now. Single mom life is messy. I’ll never get the sleek and tidy interior he has because my four-year-old likes to destroy our plants with his little monster trucks and spread mud inside our house. And I wouldn’t want it any different way.
“Your place is so…beautiful,” I gasp, looking around and noticing a few pictures next to the TV. Apart from that, there’s not a lot of personal touches. Everything’s so fancy and yet, it doesn’t really feel like a home. I enter the living room, the massive light grey couch looking plush and comfy as I take in the view. The city is so small from up here. Something shifts behind me and the hair on my neck rises. I don’t even need to look back to know he’s behind me.There’s something about Carter, something I can’t put my finger on; it's like my body’s aware of him.
“I cooked something for you,” he delivers, in his sharp and cold voice I’m familiarizing myself with. I bit a smile, sensing his stare shooting holes in my back. No man ever cooked for me. My dad didn’t like it, and Ben, well, Ben would yell at me if he had to even lift a finger to grab butter in the fridge. He bought us pizza every Saturday night. Does that count as cooking? Turning to face him, I smile. “What did you cook?”
“Pasta. I hope you like that. Most people do,” he pauses, “I think.” I bite my lip, his blue eyes drifting straight to mine with an intensity that makes my skin blossom with goosebumps.
“I love pasta,” I murmur.
“Good.” He nods, then lifts his hand slowly before putting it back next to his side. I frown.What was that?
“Can I touch your face?” he asks and something pumps hard under my chest for his gentleness with me. I nod, feeling the blush rise on my face. His calloused hand raises slowly to my face until he cups my cheek and strokes my jaw a few times, my gaze locks with his, and I’m almost afraid he'll hear the beating of my heart.
“Do you like it when I do this?” he asks, angling his face, his ocean pools studying me, and for some reason, I love when he does that. When he’s fully focused on every feature of my face, as if he were searching for the clues of what I’m truly feeling,trying to figure out what I like and don’t like. I know I shouldn’t compare, but I can’t stop thinking that Ben would just grab my face and kiss me roughly without asking me. Carter’s different…so much different.
“Yes,” I whisper, loving the contrast of his rough, inked hand on my cheek, and wondering if he understands how much I like this.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, his hand still on me, and I notice that he is flexing his other hand on his side.
“Very.” My voice is barely audible. His eyes darken, turning navy, and his hand stops stroking my cheek. His jaw ticks as he steps back.
“Follow me, sweetness,” he says, and the sound of my nickname escaping his lips sends a million butterflies fluttering in my belly.
He goes behind the kitchen island and invites me to sit on one of the stools facing him while he finishes cooking. The food smells amazing. Pulling up his sleeves, I notice his thick forearms are covered with ink, but those are different from the fires and roses on his hands. His arms are drawn with maps like in fantasy books, intricate details that make it look like an old relic with small handwriting, symbols, and a compass. Without glancing at me, he stirs the pasta in the pot and then pulls out two ceramic plates and nicely puts them aside, swirling the pasta on the plates to make it look nice.
“Hope you like pesto,” he grunts before circling the island and putting the plate before me. I don’t know if he has a housekeeper or if he did it himself, but there’s a candle and silver cutlery already set.
“I do, it looks really good. Thank you,” I say honestly. Simple but delicious. No need for anything fancy or over the top. After putting the plate down, he goes back to the fridge.
“You’re welcome,” he says, clearing his throat, “I got juice or sparkling water, what do you prefer?”
“I’ll take the same as you.”
“I take tap water.”
“Okay,” I smile, “tap water is fine.”
