Page 13 of Feastin' with Fire
As I move around the kitchen, heating the chili and pulling out bowls, I notice her eyes following me. It's been a long time since I've had an audience for these mundane tasks, and it makes me self-conscious in a way I'm not used to feeling.
"You have a really nice place," she says after a few moments of silence. "I noticed all the firefighter photos in the living room. Looks like you've been with the department a long time."
I nod, stirring the pot of chili. "Fifteen years next month."
"That's incredible," she says, and her genuine admiration makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "But I couldn't help noticing there aren't any family photos. Not a single one."
The observation catches me off guard. Most people don't notice details like that, or if they do, they don't mention it. I consider deflecting, giving some vague non-answer, but something about her direct approach makes me want to respond in kind.
"Don't have much family to take pictures of," I say finally, keeping my tone neutral as I ladle chili into bowls.
She doesn't push, just nods. "I get that. I don't have many family photos either. At least, none I'd want to display."
I set a bowl in front of her, along with a spoon and some crackers. "Careful, it's hot."
"Thank you." She takes a small bite, then makes a sound of appreciation that goes straight to my groin. "This is really good. You're a good cook."
"It's just chili," I say, but I'm pleased by her reaction. "When you live alone, you either learn to cook or eat a lot of takeout. Cooking's cheaper."
She takes another bite, then looks up at me with those big brown eyes. "Can I ask you something personal?"
My guard goes up instantly. "Depends on what it is."
"Have you always lived alone? I mean, you're—" She stops, a blush spreading across her cheeks.
"I'm what?" I prompt, curious despite myself.
The blush deepens. "You're not exactly hard on the eyes, and you can cook, and you have this amazing house. I just... I'm surprised you're not married or something."
Not hard on the eyes. Coming from this woman who looks like a fucking dream sitting in my kitchen wearing nothing but my t-shirt, the compliment is almost laughable.
"Never married," I say, leaning against the counter as I eat my own chili. "Came close once, a long time ago. Didn't work out."
That's the abbreviated version. The full story involves finding my fiancée in bed with my former best friend six weeks before the wedding. But Lily doesn't need to hear that particular tale of woe.
"Her loss," Lily says.
I nearly choke on my chili. This conversation is veering into dangerous territory. A beautiful young woman in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, telling me some ex made a mistake by letting me go? It's like the setup to every middle-aged man's fantasy.
"What about you?" I ask, desperate to change the subject. "No boyfriend wondering where you are?"
She shakes her head. "No boyfriend. I've been too focused on the shop to date much."
"Hard to believe," I say before I can stop myself.
She looks up, surprise evident in her expression. "What do you mean?"
Shit. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Just that you're—" I gesture vaguely with my spoon, "—you know. Pretty. I'd think guys would be lining up."
Her laugh is short and disbelieving. "Right. Because men are so interested in awkward, ugly and fat florists who can barely make eye contact."
"Ugly and fat?" I repeat, genuinely confused.
Is that how she sees herself? This gorgeous woman who has curves that could make a saint sin, and she thinks that’s bad?
"My mother's word, not mine," she clarifies, looking down at her bowl. "She always said I'd 'find a husband faster if I lost twenty pounds.'"
I can't help the snort that escapes me. "Your mother sounds like a real piece of work."
