Page 23 of Spark
After a long while, I ease back. "We should head upstairs. The food’s ready whenever you are."
"I’m hungry." With a final nip at my lips, he releases me.
As he follows me up the stairs, I’m conscious of his gaze on my ass. I gesture toward the table. "Have a seat. I’ll bring the food out."
"I’ll help you." Finlay smiles and walks ahead of me, pushing past the swinging door and into the kitchen.
My heartbeat pauses and then kicks into gear. I rush after him.
He’s standing in the middle of the room as though one look at the hideous motif has turned him to stone. Unlike the living room with its clean lines, polished wood floor, gray walls, and fancy touches, the kitchen is a nightmare of clashing styles and colors, outdated and worn materials, missing floor tiles, peeling paint, and a hole in the ceiling.
Heat flashes into my body and I’m sure my ears are red. "As you can see, I still have a lot of work to do."
"But you know what you’re doing, unlike me." He lifts a shoulder and smiles again, apparently recovered from his shock.
In a rush to get us out of this room as fast as possible, I turn off the oven, snatch oven mitts off a shelf, and remove the lasagna in the span of a few seconds. "If you need any help or advice with your flip, feel free to ask."
"You might regret that." With another self-deprecating shrug, he follows me into the living room and stays close as I set the pan on a wooden trivet carved to resemble a rugby ball that Cam gave me as a housewarming present. "My gran gave me a power drill and a how-to book of home improvements for my birthday. Even if it was intended to be a joke, I’ve found the book to be helpful."
We both sit and I dish up heaping squares of lasagna. "If you need more than that, my offer stands."
"Thanks. That looks amazing." Finlay eyes the food like he’s been starving for days. He lifts a forkful and I’m happy to see the layers looking like they are supposed to.
"It’s my dad’s recipe. Both my parents taught Sofia and me how to cook and expected us to help out with prep and clean up. Being in the kitchen isn’t my favorite thing, but I’m grateful that when I moved out of my parents’ house, I left armed with the knowledge of how to make a lot of things."
"I left mine armed with how to make ramen noodles." Laughing, Finlay takes a sip of wine.
I chuckle and clink my glass against his. “Hey, I’m no stranger to ramen. I have a stack of them in the pantry. Did your parents not teach you to cook, or did you not want to learn? Sofia leaves most of the cooking to Eve.”
The laughter fades from his eyes. “Cocktails are the only things I’ve seen my parents make. We had a personal chef who handled all the cooking and she didn’t like people getting in her way in the kitchen.”
“Oh.” Wow. So many of my memories incorporate making food with my family. I can’t imagine growing up without it. I wonder if Finlay wanted that too. I’m tempted to reach out and touch him again. To lay my hand on his shoulder or thigh. “What about now? Do you cook?”
“I manage.” He lifts a brow and gives the food a longing glance which he then transfers to me. “Cooking for one person can seem like a lot of effort.”
“I agree.” He seems so right, sitting here across from me. So much so that I want to see him here again. “So maybe you’ll just have to come over more often.”
"Deal.” Grinning, he taps his glass against mine once more. “So, how long have you lived here?"
"Five years." Heat creeps across my neck and ears. Looking around the space, he must think I’m the slowest worker ever. He’ll think so for sure if he sees the upstairs bath or any of the other rooms. They are versions of the nightmare kitchen all over again. "I have a lot of renovations left to do here. Life got in the way of my plans."
"That has a way of happening." Finlay’s smooth voice is filled with understanding and his gaze darts around the space then back to mine once more. I see compassion, not censure.
My snail’s pace renovation has been the butt of jokes from some of my co-workers. My ex liked to point out the unfinished projects too. I don’t want Finlay to think I’m not motivated or incapable of getting things done. Projects cost time and money, and I’m short on both. Five years ago, I’d expected to have the house completed in under two years. Life getting in the way of plans is an understatement. Words tumble out of me in my rush to assure him that I’m not a slacker. "The first things I had to fix were plumbing and electrical work, then new drywall in a few of the rooms, new windows upstairs, and a new roof. The living room is the most recent thing I’ve done. I work on the renovations in my spare time."
His eyebrows raise, wrinkling his forehead. "From what you’ve told me, you don’t have a lot of that."
I shrug. He’s right, I don’t. Thinking too much about my seemingly unending to-do list and the reason why the renovations have slowed to a snail’s pace is a sure-fire way to get overwhelmed. If I dwell too long on the mountain of debt I’m under, I’m liable to get another panic attack. All I have to do is stick with the plan and work the second job. A year and a half down, three and a half years to go.
I push the food around my plate and when I catch Finlay watching me and his concerned gaze, I shovel in another forkful. "I’ll get there eventually."
He sets his fork down and lays his hand over mine. "You seem tense. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?"
I shake my head. Then nod. "You could eat. Otherwise, I might get a complex about my cooking."
Finlay pauses just long enough to make me worry that he’s going to dig for more information than I’m ready to share. But then he picks up his fork once again. "So what’s the next project you’ll work on?"
"Probably the hall bath. I figured the first things I’d tackle would be places that other people would see."
