Page 34 of What Hurts Us

His kitchen was clean and organized but left much to be desired, especially when I opened the third set of cabinets looking for any sort of cooking utensil. Thus far, I had found two cereal bowls, two plates, two cups, two of each kind of utensil, a pot, a small sheet pan, and a slotted spatula.

It wasn’t the lack of variety; it was the quantity that got me. Who only had two plates in their entire house? Didn’t he ever have friends over?

My last resort to figure out where he hid all of his cooking implements came in the form of the useless cabinet over the fridge. I mean, seriously? Why even put a cabinet there? No one can reach it. You move in, put something there, and then forget about it until you move out.

The upper fridge cabinet was, in my opinion, totally and completely useless. That is unless you’re Cal Fletcher and you’re trying to keep your fake fiancé-to-be from finding where you keep the rest of your pots and pans. I at least needed a skillet.

I was kneeling on top of the kitchen counter, reaching for the aforementioned above the fridge cabinet, when hands slid up my bare calves.

“Careful,” Cal said in a groggy rasp. His warm touch melted into my skin. I was sitting back on my haunches, and his hands were dangerously close to my ass.

“Um, sorry,” I said, regaining some shred of sanity. Apparently, the rest had evaporated somewhere between the couch and the guest room when he carried me up the stairs this morning.

I closed the over-the-fridge cabinet and scrambled down. Cal’s hands never left my body. They slid from my calves up to my hips, up my waist as I dropped down onto the floor as if he was bracing to catch me.

When I turned, I landed chest-to-face with navy blue cotton stretched over a chest the size of Mount Rushmore. “Sorry,” I clipped.

Cal crossed one arm over the other, the cords of veins and muscle standing out like a roadmap I wanted to trace with my tongue. “Looking for something?”

“I was going to make dinner.”

“Why?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Because it’s dinner time?” Thinking it best not to agitate him, I conceded. “I thought it would be a nice gesture. You gave me a place to stay. The least I can do is cook dinner.”

“You don’t need to cook me dinner,” he clipped. “We’re square.”

“Or I could cookmedinner and leave some leftovers in the fridge for you to eat when you think I’m not looking,” I retorted.

“I don’t have Tupperware.”

“I noticed.”

Callum didn’t respond. Instead, he bore into me with those steel gray eyes framed with dark lashes. The dark stubble on his cheeks glimmered as he flexed his jaw. He was wearing gym shorts, I noted. It was the first time I’d seen him in something other than jeans or his uniform pants. A dark scar ran up the side of his calf from the surgery that had pieced his leg back together.

“What were you gonna make for dinner?” he asked, drawing my attention back to his kissable lips rather than his injury.They looked so soft. Full and squared. Strong.Simply looking at his mouth made me breathless.

“Probably just chicken and rice. Some vegetables. Nothing fancy.”

I swear I heard his stomach growl.

Callum brought one hand up to his mouth and pressed his thumb to the pout of his lip. “What do you need to make all that?”

“A skillet. Some actual spices. Some kind of baking dish I can put in the oven.” I rambled off a few more things that would make cooking a little easier, all while Callum stood—arms crossed—and scowled.

When he didn’t say anything, I pressed on. “Don’t get me wrong, I respect and identify with the minimalist thing, but there are literally only two cups in this entire house.”

He shrugged at that. “I only need two. Usually don’t even need the second one.”

“Are you like… a paper plate and plastic utensils kind of guy, or are you one of those freaks that washes dishes as soon as you’re done with them.”

Given the fact that he had washed my cereal bowl, I was leaning toward the latter.

A lazy smile drew across his lips, and I felt like I’d won the lottery. “Go put on some clothes,cupcake.”

“You want me to change clothes before I make dinner?” I looked down at my cotton shorts and tank top. It had been warm overnight, so I’d gone with as little as possible under my flight suit and hadn’t bothered to change out of it when I got home.

“No ma’am,” he said. “How ‘bout this. You help me pick out some stuff that’ll make this a functioning kitchen, and I’ll treat us both to dinner tonight. Tomorrow you can cook that dinner that sounded so good.”

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