Page 105 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

And we’re definitely not on good terms.

So why, oh why, do my thighs clench together when he inches forward, invading my space like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and says, “Because I know exactly what I want right now.”

Mayday, Mayday.

I feel like I should have a panic button or something.

He continues to lean in, looking at me like he’s daring me to stop him.

Our lips are about to touch.

Just a few more inches…

That’s when the loudest stomach growl I’ve ever heard cuts through the air.

I swear it sounded like my body was calling me names, spewing out threats to get me to feed it.

The noise snaps me right out of whatever trance was holding me prisoner.

What the hell just happened?

Was Kane seriously going to kiss me?

More importantly, was I going to let him?

I barely have a chance to process it before Kane pushes off the bench, reaching for my wrist and pulling me to my feet without an explanation.

“W-Where are we going?” I stammer as he drags me out of the sunroom.

“To put some food in you.”

HADLEY

I wouldn’t say that I’m a great cook.

By no means am I a pro in the kitchen. I know the basics, sure, but any recipe that requires more than thirty minutes of cooking is a no-go for me.

I thought my skills needed work, but it turns out, compared to Kane? I could open a fucking restaurant.

The guy only knows how to cook two things: a grilled cheese and an omelet.

That’s it.

After he dragged me down to the kitchen, he went straight for the fridge. Too bad Scar already munched his way through the leftovers Sue put in there.

I started to feel light-headed, and it quickly became clear that if I wanted to eat, I would have to cook something.

Problem is, Kane is way too stubborn to allow that to happen, and he’s been telling me to sit down for ten minutes, searching the internet for a recipe easy enough to whip up in the middle of the night.

I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’m this close to entering “hangry” territory, and he seems completely overwhelmed by the recipes on his screen.

“It doesn’t have to be a gourmet meal.”

“Yes, it does.” He squints at his phone, zooming in on the ingredients for whatever fancy meal he wants to make me.

I catch myself smiling at how determined he is.

“Why don’t you just make me an omelet?”

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