“No, just playing around with raw chicken, because that’s an enjoyable pastime.” The sarcasm in my voice is incredibly heavy, and even though I have a plan of attack to get this man out of my apartment without having to recruit my brother, I still have a heavy dose of irritation where he’s concerned.
Which, you know what? That pleases me. Look at me being all grown up. A handsome, chiseled jaw and scruffy, damp hair isn’t going to deter me. Oh no, the irritation level is at an all-time high. It’s nice having morals. They feel great in this very moment.
He sighs heavily and moves in closer. “Do you need help?”
Ooo, he smells good.
How can his cologne still be that heavy on him? After a long day of dealing with pubescent pukes and teaching them about the wonders of way back when, how can he possibly still smell like the most attractive, enticing . . . alluring man on the planet?
And what kind of cologne is he using? Because . . . YUM!
Swallowing back the desire bubbling inside of me, I say, “If you’d like to fill up a pot of water, that would be great.”
Wait . . . do I want him to help?
I think his cologne distracted me. I don’t want him to help, right? Cooking in my compact kitchen together, when he smells like that, isn’t going to help my stance that he’s the worst human in the entire world.
“On second thought, you can excuse yourself from the premises,” I say, chin held high. “I’m quite confident in my ability to boil water on my own.” I tap the breasts with the wooden spoon, finding the sound of the hard surface of my kitchen utensil hitting the wet chicken quite satisfying.
“I’m not knocking your cooking abilities at all. The way you’re sweetly massaging the chicken makes me believe I’m in for the meal of a lifetime.” Was that sarcasm? I can’t tell with his accent. “But I’ll help you with the water.”
He goes straight to the cabinet where I keep my pots and pans and picks the smaller one. There’s no doubt in my mind that the man snooped in my apartment while I was stalling in my building’s hallway, because he’s far too familiar with where everything is. And what’s with that? I don’t really know much about Pike Greyson, although I got to know parts of him in Vegas—I think—but a snooper? Wouldn’t have suspected that about him.
Once the pot is filled and on the stove—and the chicken has been “massaged”—I go to my spices, which I picked up today, and grab salt, pepper, onion stuff, and something that apparently is supposed to be for chicken. I realize this meal is going to be disgusting and that I’ll question all my decisions while eating it, but if I’m going to do this, I’m going all in.
With his eyes watching my every move, I pick up the onion stuff and just dump.
“Whoa,” he says from behind me. “That’s quite a bit of seasoning.”
“Just the way us Americans like it,” I say as I dump the chicken spice on as well, followed by the pepper and a tiny, itty bitty pinch of salt. I might be wanting to get rid of him, but a girl has to watch her sodium intake.
“Very well. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. I’m quite capable of making dinner for my husband, thank you very much.” I take the pan and move past him, my shoulder brushing against his. With irritated force, I stick the chicken in the oven and slam the door shut. It was nice knowing you, birds, but you’ve got to roast.
Once that’s taken care of, I set up my air fryer, the one and only thing in my kitchen that I actually know how to properly use, because frankly, it can do everything. And that’s what I like, an all-purpose machine.
“What are you making in there?”
I stand up straight and look him in the eyes. “Are you going to stand there and question everything I’m doing? Don’t you have something better to do like grade papers or watch cricket or soccer?”
“I don’t like cricket, and it’s called football, not soccer.”
“You know what I mean. I don’t need you hovering in here. The space is small enough as it is.”
He moves around the kitchen and to the island, where he pulls up one of the stools I recently purchased. He props his arms on the counter and says, “Then I’ll keep you company over here.”
I set my hands on the counter and stare him down. “What is this?” I ask, motioning to him.
“What’s what?”
“This . . . this nice-guy persona you have going on. Frankly, I’m not a fan.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I prefer the aloof asshole who didn’t speak to me.”