Page 26 of The Ruckup
So why the heck wouldn’t he want to share a bed with me?
Leo holds a hand out. “Stop thinking so hard, Miss Miller.” He gives me the lopsided smile that always makes my heart skip a beat. “It’s not that serious.”
I’m afraid it is though. After being with Drake, I thought it would take me forever to be ready to move on. To be able to believe anything that came out of a man’s mouth again.
Maybe Drake didn’t really ruin me for relationships. He simply helped me see the difference between genuine earnestness and fabricated behavior. Helped me know a good thing when I see it. Gave me the ability to recognize the things that don’t serve me.
Right now, my parents aren’t serving me. I’m not sure what I’m going to do about that—if anything—but I do know how I’m going to handle the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I’m going to grab it with both hands and hold tight. Literally, and figuratively.
Taking a deep breath, I step forward and link my fingers between Leo’s. The warmth of his wide, callused palm is a tether to the sort of stability and acceptance I’ve never had. Not when I was a kid spending the majority of my time hiding in my bedroom from parents who could be fine one minute and yelling the next. And not during my marriage to a man whose every word was a carefully crafted manipulation designed to control me.
Leading me to the kitchen, Leo drops my hand, but only so he can grip my waist and lift me up onto the counter. My heart immediately starts to race and arousal flares to life, centering to a pulsing thrum between my thighs. The last time I was on acounter in front of Leo was one of the most intense and sexiest experiences of my life.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like Leo’s about to give me a repeat performance. After giving me a featherlight, chaste kiss, he turns away to dig through his gigantic refrigerator.
After perusing the contents for a few seconds, he turns to peek at me over one broad shoulder. “How do you feel about chicken and vegetables?”
I grin, because that sounds like exactly the kind of food I would expect a professional athlete to eat. Way more than what he’s been feeding me the past few days.
Not that I mind. I love splurging as much as anyone. But I love simple, nourishing meals just as much. They remind me of being a kid, helping my abuela cook in the kitchen. She could make the simplest foods taste freaking amazing.
“I love chicken and vegetables.” I brace my hands on the edge of the counter, crossing my ankles as I watch Leo line his ingredients down the counter. He pulls out a giant pan, setting it on the largest burner of his stove to heat, then begins chopping through broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, and peppers. When his vegetables are prepped, he moves on to the chicken, cubing it into bite-size squares.
Then he opens a cabinet, I’m assuming to pull out all the seasonings he’s going to use. Salt and pepper hit the counter.
And that’s it.
Surely he’s going to use more than just salt and pepper, right? No one eats chicken and vegetables with nothing but salt and pepper on them,right?
Apparently, Leo does.
I watch in horror as he tosses the chicken into the bit of olive oil he swirled over the hot pan, and sprinkles on a shower of salt, followed by a hint of pepper.
Like before, I don’t think before my mouth opens. “Do you hate yourself?”
Leo turns my way, brows lifting. “In what context?”
I press my lips together, thinking I should maybe try to backpedal. But if I’m going to be staying with Leo, we’re either going to have to cook separately, or he’s going to have to take me back to my apartment so I can pack up my spice cabinet.
“I’m just surprised you’re only using salt and pepper.”
Leo angles a brow. “Are you really?”
I look him over. He’s six and a half feet of solid muscle. A wall of masculinity. Probably the kind of person who considers food nothing more than fuel. And that makes me sad.
Because my abuela showed me food is love.
As a child, she was the only person who made me feel safe and accepted. The only one I could confide in. The only one I could trust. Most of the time I spent with her growing up was in the kitchen, so all my good memories of growing up, center around food.
Food with seasoning.
And that has me wondering. “Didn’t you help Babs cook?”
I’ve eaten at his parents’ house. I know his mom’s a good cook. I even think I remember his grandmother being a good cook. She made amazing meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Definitely head and shoulders above salt-and-peppered chicken.
Leo snorts. “No. Babs and Dan would never think a boy needed to learn to cook.” He flashes me a mirthless smile. “That’s woman’s work.”
