The warmth of the mug in my hand reminds me he’s not feeling well.
I’ll ask him another time.
I’m taking another sip when my nose twitches.
I look over to the stainless-steel pot, and tendrils of smoke are seeping out around the lid.
“Ahh!” I rush the few feet to the stove.
My fingers touch the handle of the lid for just a moment, but I jerk away because it’s an all-metal lid with a metal handle and it’s scorching hot.
“Shit,” I hiss while shaking out my hand.
I know I saw hot pads in one of these drawers.
A noise sounds from the other room, and I can picture Hans getting up from the couch to come investigate.
“It’s all good!” I shout. “Stay there!”
Yanking open drawers, I find the hand towels and use one to pull the lid free.
A plume of smoke comes out of the pot.
“How?” I question the universe as quietly as possible.
I set the lid to the side and use the towel to fan at the smoke.
It disperses and thankfully doesn’t set off any alarms.
Looking into the pot, I see the culprit.
Frustrated, I scowl at the mini meatball stuck to the side.
Only I would burn frozen soup.
To prove my point, a large chunk of frozen broth still floats in the pot.
And I know exactly what happened. The pot got hot, the block of ice tipped against the side, and instead of melting out of the ice and dropping into the broth below, the meatball decided to sear itself to the metal.
Using one of the spoons, I scrape at the burned meatball. “Why couldn’t you just behave?”
When it finally breaks free and drops into the soup below, I realize I probably should have tried to scoop the burned parts out.
Whatever, too late now.
I bite my lip, eyeing the lid, but decide to leave it off.
Leaving the soup to finish melting and heating, I grab the mugs and head into the living room.
Hans’s gaze is already on me.
“Soup’s almost ready,” I say, crossing the room, noticing that it smells like smoke in this room too.
I also notice that Hans is trying not to smile.
CHAPTER 20
Hans
Should’ve known it wouldn’t be an enemy that gets me, but rather, pretty little Cassandra burning my house down from the inside.
I lift the spoon to my lips, pretending that I don’t notice Cassandra standing there staring at me.
The scent of burned meat overwhelms any other pleasant aroma the soup might give off, but I keep my features relaxed as the first taste hits my tongue.
I take a second bite, then take pity on Cassandra and look her way.
“Okay?” Her expression is so hopeful it twists something in my chest.
“Yes.” I nod. “Thank you.”
Her mouth pulls into a bright smile, and tension drops from her shoulders. “Oh, good.” She points at my empty mug. “Would you like another?”
I nod and watch her ass in those fucking leggings as she sways back into the kitchen.
I lied to her earlier when she asked if I’d had dinner. I had two ham sandwiches. I’m not the least bit hungry. But I can’t turn down her food.
My fingers flex around the spoon as I take another bite.
Even assuming it wouldn’t be good, I couldn’t turn down a chance to consume something she made.
As she walks back into the living room carrying two mugs, I wonder if there’s a way I could ask her to write Italian wedding soup on a Post-it for me. It feels wrong to not have this meal documented like the rest.
But then Cassandra sits on the couch next to me, and I accept that this meal isn’t like the others. This isn’t me standing in the kitchen, choking down what she’d left on my front step. This is me sitting two feet away from her gloriously soft body.
Nothing has changed. I still shouldn’t have her here with me. Shouldn’t let her anywhere near me. But I can’t find it in me to make her leave. Because deep down, I want her to stay.
“Figured I’d have a second too.” She gestures her mug to me as she sets mine on the coffee table. “It is the weekend, after all.” Then she settles back into the couch, drink cradled in her hand. “What’re you watching?” Her brows furrow beneath her curly bangs.
I want to brush her hair aside and trace my finger over the cute wrinkles that form across her forehead when she makes that expression.
“What language is that?”
What…？
My brain catches up, and I turn back to the TV.
Oops.
It’s a Swedish film. In Swedish.
I don’t usually slip up like this, showing someone something about myself by accident. I don’t need her knowing I speak Swedish. Or Italian. Or Spanish.