“I’m just not used to sitting around and letting someone wait on me,” she replied. “Tommy always expected me to do everything. Cook, clean, get him a beer. And, of course, it also feels weird to just be sitting here after doing everything the last few days.”
Not for the first time, Chappy wanted to kick her ex’s ass. He brought their full plates over to the table and set them down before going back into the kitchen and grabbing the two glasses of water, two forks, and two paper towels.
He set everything down on the table, sat, then took a breath before turning to her. “I’m thirty-four years old. I’ve been cooking for myself for at least the last decade and a half. I’ve done my own laundry, paid my own bills, cleaned my own dishes, floors, bathrooms, and everything else. I don’t expect you—or anyone else, for that matter—to do that stuff for me. In fact, it would feel extremely weird for me to sit around and let you do all that stuff.
“I also don’t like the thought of you having to do everything around here while I was sick. Don’t get me wrong, I’m appreciative, and I can’t remember the last time anyone has gone out of their way to do so much for me . . . but I don’t expect or want that dynamic in any kind of relationship I have, whether platonic or romantic.”
Carlise was staring at him so raptly, Chappy wished he could read her mind and know what she was thinking. When she didn’t comment, he kept talking.
“I have to admit, it feels good to cook for someone other than myself. I always make too much and have to eat leftovers for days. I usually get sick of eating the same thing but feel guilty if I throw perfectly good food out. So you’re really doing me a favor.”
Her lips twitched, and she rolled her eyes. “Me letting you wait on me hand and foot is doing you a favor?”
“Yup,” he said with a grin.
“Whatever,” she muttered and reached for her fork.
Chappy knew the taco pasta was good, but he still held his breath as she took her first bite. Her eyes widened as she chewed. After she swallowed, she grinned at him. “Holy crap, Riggs. This is . . . it’s so good!”
He chuckled. “I’m not sure how much of a compliment that is since you’ve had nothing but PB&J for the last three days.”
“No, I’m serious. It’s really, really good,” she said enthusiastically.
“Well, there’s plenty, so dig in,” he returned, pleasure blooming in his chest. It was silly. It was only food. But as they sat there, and she ate a meal he’d prepared for her, Chappy’s protectiveness for this woman grew. He knew it wasn’t just about the food. It was a sense of satisfaction deep in his soul for providing for her.
He hadn’t lied earlier when he’d told her he was a protector. He enjoyed being needed, doing things for others. But this felt so different.
Different from helping out his friends or a neighbor. Assisting a tourist on the AT. Different from just wanting to return the favor after she’d taken care of him.
He was already falling for Carlise.
It wasn’t like him. He’d met his share of women over the years, and none of them had made him feel like he did right that moment, sitting at the table in his humble cabin, so proud of sharing a meal he’d made. No one had even come close.
He might not know many details about her life, but he knew Carlise was the kind of person who would do whatever was necessary to take care of a fellow human, even if she didn’t know them. She was the kind who worried about a stray dog. Who’d feed him and make sure he was warm and safe from a storm.
She was the kind of woman who wouldn’t put up with a man abusing her, who’d left the first time he raised his fists. Who’d refused to pry into a man’s personal life and belongings even when he’d been delirious and wouldn’t have ever known. The kind of woman who found pleasure in something as simple as warm water.
Okay, maybe he knew a lot more about Carlise than he’d thought. And every single thing made him want to know more.
“You’re awfully quiet over there. I think you talked more when you were delirious,” Carlise said, sounding a little nervous.
“Sorry, I’m not used to having guests,” Chappy said.
She grimaced. “No, I’m sorry. As soon as I can, I’ll be out of your hair.”
“That’s not what I was insinuating,” he told her, instant panic welling up inside him. “I just . . . I’m not the best conversationalist. I was just enjoying sitting here with you and trying to remember the last time I’d been this content. Usually I eat standing up in the kitchen, snarfing my food down quickly.”