She doesn’t move for a moment, her gaze hot on me.
Did she want me to kiss her? Is her mind reeling from thoughts of all the tempting potential for us, or am I alone in this?
“Let’s see if you can actually cook,” she quips, reaching around me to grab a bowl.
32
PIPPA
Camden Hunter is infuriating.
He has a perfect face. A perfect body. Is rich as hell. One of the most talented people I’ve ever met. And the asshole can cook, too.
His eyes are trained on me as I blow on the spoonful of soup, cooling the hot liquid down before taking a bite. My mom used to make the best soup ever, spending Sundays throwing everything in the fridge into a pot and somehow making it delicious. But damn, this chicken noodle soup almost compares to what she used to make.
It’s delicious, which is annoying as hell.
I can’t even say he’s lacking in personality anymore because the more I get to know him, the more I think the whole asshole thing is a front. Sure, he still has his moments where he can be a dick, but he’s not as bad as I first thought.
And I don’t like that at all. Because now he’s doing things like taking off work to come take care of me and make me soup, and it doesn’t feel like we’re enemies who might have sex anymore. It feels like I might have actual feelings for the art dealer next door, and I have no idea if it will hurt me in the end.
I try to push any negative thoughts out of my mind. One day, I might come to regret letting Camden into my life little by little, but right now, I want to soak it in. I want to feel special, like maybe him taking care of me is out of character for him and that he may be feeling the attraction between us, too. For me, it isn’t just the sexual tension. There are feelings, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating to wonder what might happen.
“So are you just going to leave me hanging, or are you going to confess that my soup blew you away?”
I slurp the liquid from the soup with a casual shrug. “It’s okay.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “You’re lying.”
I like the casual way he sits in his chair, his long legs slightly parted. He holds himself so confidently, even while sitting in my tiny kitchen, watching me eat soup. He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, showing off his perfect forearms. The muscles along the top ripple with his movements, beckoning me to reach out and touch them.
“You’re watching me awfully close, shortcake.” His voice is low and taunting.
I meet his blue eyes, trying to play it cool like I wasn’t just imagining gripping his strong biceps as he railed into me.
What kind of medicine did he give me?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie. He and I both know I just got caught ogling him, but it’s fine. I’ll distract him by telling him he makes mediocre soup when in reality, I think it’s the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever had.
“Mhm,” he hums, sitting back in his chair. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he brings his fingers to his mouth and runs his thumb along his bottom lip.
The asshole is bringing attention to those perfectly chiseled forearms. He’s trying to tempt me, tease me, and if I didn’t feel foggy from the sleep—or the medicine—I might just crawl across this table so he could finally fuck me.
“Careful with the speed at which you inhale the soup.” He nods toward my bowl of soup, which is already halfway gone. “You might have me believing you’re actually enjoying it.”
“It’s because I’m starving, and I have no other options.”
“You have a pantry and fridge full of food. If my soup is so terrible, I can find you something else.”
My spine straightens, the spoon clanging into the bowl as I look at him in confusion. “Did you buy me groceries?”
His lips pick up in a cocky smirk. “I did. Would you like me to make you something different?”
I don’t answer him at first. All I can do is stare, trying to figure him out. He’s constantly shocking me. His thoughtfulness takes me by surprise. He didn’t have to bring me herbal tea and food this morning. He didn’t have to hold me while I slept. And he certainly didn’t have to make me soup and buy me groceries.
He’s so different today than all the other days I’ve known him. It can’t only be because we hooked up.
“Shortcake?”
“Hm?”
He aims a knowing smirk my way. His eyebrows rise as his thumb still teases me by tracing his bottom lip. “Would you like me to make you something different?”