Noah drops his grin, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
Thankfully, I manage not to ramble on the rest of the evening, and when Noah walks me home, the short trip is full of jokes and laughter.
The next morning, I wake the next morning to find a text of our ‘proposed’ menu. So to make it official, I add our plans to my calendar, and search for him on Venmo. He said he would hit the store, so I send him a small chunk of my monthly food budget.
Noah sent it right back.
It’s Wednesday, we’re about done with the first meal, so I sneak away to the bathroom, and stuff forty bucks into the front zipper of his backpack. I’m back in the kitchen before he has a moment to get suspicious.
Noah lifts the spoon to his mouth, where my attention is stuck as he blows on the hot mixture. Once satisfied it won’t burn my mouth, he brings the spoonful toward me. “Taste this.”
His eyes, they’re so unlike a shade of blue I’ve seen before. So mythical and bright, yet stormy, like what you’d expect the find on the god of the sea. A little lost and lonely maybe. A hint of wild. It’s intriguing, the color. Or maybe it’s the emotion I can read within them.
How can I read the emotion within them?
“Juliet?”
I blink, dropping my pinched gaze to the spoon.
“Sorry,” I mumble, closing my lips around it.
The savory glaze concocted of homemade chili with cranberry hits my tastebuds, the explosiveness of the flavors pulling a satisfactory moan from me.
“So good.” I leave the sauce to sit on my tongue a moment. “You know, if the whole going pro thing doesn’t work out for you, you could totally be a chef.”
I hadn’t realized I closed my eyes, and when I look to Noah, he tears his from my mouth.
He quickly turns to the sink, dropping the spoon inside. “You think it’s good like that or does it need more crushed red peppers?”
When I don’t respond, he looks over, meeting my frown.
“The little pepper flakes…”
“…like pizza peppers?”
He grins and turns to lean his tailbone against the small countertop. “Were you paying attention when we put in the spices?”
To the food? No. To the focus and peacefulness that takes you over when you cook? Yes. Yes, I was.
“No?”
He laughs, playfully hitting me with the dishtowel.
I pop a shoulder. “I figured my job was to hand you stuff and give you honest opinions on taste.”
“Uh-huh, and how are you supposed to make it on your own if you do that?” he teases.
“Okay, wow. If I gave you the impression that would be a possibility, I am so sorry.” I grin, a laugh slipping through. “Basically, I’m going to need you and your black jacket worthy skills to survive away from home.”
I expected him to laugh or joke back, but he doesn’t.
Noah’s gaze floats across my face, and he gives a nearly undetectable nod. “I think that could work out.”
I don’t know, why but heat slowly spreads up my neck.
He sees it and rather than turning around and pretending he hasn’t, he follows the warmth past my collarbone. I should look away, but I don’t want to. I want to watch him watch me. When his midnight eyes land on mine, something low in my gut twists. It tangles and pulls and I whip around to face the counter. I move the bag with the chili ingredients in it to the side, setting the one full of stuff to make pot pie in its place.
My limbs are heavy, fuzzy, but I breathe through it, swallowing beyond the knot in my throat.
“I swear to god, Noah, if this pot pie tastes good, there will be no freezing of anything. I’ll be eating it all tonight, no joke.”
Noah’s laugh is low and sultry.
Or I’m losing my mind and need to get a grip, I can’t be sure.
He takes the hot pot of chili to the tiny table covered in potholders, setting it down beside the tray of meatballs. “We’re not making one big one. We can’t freeze it like that. We have to make a few small ones.”
“K, let’s do that… but also make a big one we can eat tonight?” I smile like a psycho, showing all my teeth. “We can veg out until my leggings are too tight.”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “You want to hang tonight?”
My eyes bulge. “Oh my gosh! I… totally invited myself to stay.” I avert my gaze. “Ignore me, keep going. What do I do next? Set the oven temp, right? That’s step one?”
“Juliet.”
My muscles tense the slightest bit. “Yeah?” I line up the ingredients, no clue what order they should be in, or if it even matters.