E.F.
My scarf.
He kept it.
Not only did he keep it, but it’s also with his special things. I pick it up and hold it in my hands as I stare at it. My eyes close, and I inhale deeply; the faint smell of my perfume still lingers.
I didn’t imagine it back then. He was right there with me. I smile broadly and put the scarf back where it was and carefully close the drawer.
I don’t know what to do with this information, but I’m pretty damn pleased with my find. My heart is racing.
He kept it.
I walk through the apartment as I look around. I run my hand over the heavy marble countertops in the kitchen and smile at the sheer luxury of the place.
I wonder if he has eaten.
I open the fridge, but it’s surprisingly sparse. There is chicken and a few ingredients. I open the pantry and find some other things. I glance at the wine fridge and frown—it’s full.
Of course it is.
How often does Mr. Miles have a liquid dinner?
Hmm, I need to get a grip on this stress of his.
I pour myself a glass of wine, take out the ingredients, and look through the cupboards to find the pots and pans and chopping boards and knives. I search Spotify on my phone and put on some chill music.
I begin to chop the chicken with a huge goofy smile on my face.
He kept my scarf.
Forty-five minutes later, I hear the front door open. “Em?” he calls.
“In the kitchen.”
“Hmm . . . something smells good.” He kisses me and wraps his arms around me from behind. “What are you cooking?”
“Fuck bunny stew.”
He laughs loudly, and it’s a beautiful sound. It does things to my insides. “Does your mother know you’re a cannibal?” He kisses my cheek from behind.
I giggle as I stir the pot. “No, and don’t tell her.”
“You didn’t need to cook. I would have taken you out.” He pours himself a glass of wine.
“It’s Monday.” I frown.
“And?” He sips his wine.
“You don’t go out to dinner on a school night.”
“I go out every night.”
“What?” I frown. “You eat out every night?”
“Yeah, of course. Why?”
My mouth falls open, and I put my hand on my hip. “Jameson Miles, you have more money than sense. How do you relax if you go out to dinner every night?”
“I sit in a restaurant and eat.” He shrugs. “It’s really quite easy.”
I roll my eyes in disgust as I keep stirring. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” He takes me in his arms and stares down at me. “Did you really miss me over the weekend?”
I go up onto my toes and kiss his big beautiful lips. “I did, actually.”
He holds me tight.
“This is where you tell me that you missed me too,” I mutter dryly into his shoulder.
“I don’t miss people.”
“Ugh,” I huff as I pull out of his arms and go back to stirring the dinner. “Can you go out of the room so I can drug your food now?” I ask. “I plan on robbing your place.”
He chuckles. “Only if you promise to take advantage of my body while I’m sleeping.”
I giggle. “Deal.”
I dish up our dinner, and we take seats at the kitchen counter. I hold my breath as he takes his first bite. “Hmm, delicious,” he hums.
I smile proudly.
“A fuck bunny who cooks.” He smirks around a forkful of food.
“I love to cook. It’s my hobby.”
He frowns and watches me for a moment. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Emily.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. You’re very . . .” He pauses as he thinks of the right word. “Unaffected.”
“Unaffected by what?” I smirk as I eat.
He shrugs. “New York.”
“You’ve never had a girlfriend who cooked for you before?”
“I’ve only ever had one serious relationship, and she was a workaholic like me.” He shrugs. “We would both get home too late from work. Eating out was easier.”
I sip my wine as I stare at him. I would love to blurt out a million questions about her . . . but I won’t. I’ll play it cool.
He moves to get his wine, and he winces.
“What’s wrong?”
“My back’s tight.” He stands and twists his upper body to stretch. “Somebody insisted on me firing my masseuse.”
“Oh, her,” I scoff. “Don’t ruin my night. I’ll find you a new masseuse tomorrow.”