I’ve never made fettuccine Alfredo before, but where there’s a will there’s a way. Because if Derek thinks I’m going to be easily driven off by a bit of cooking, he must not know me at all. I’m going to make this pasta so good—so delicious he’ll weep. And then I’m going to make him sit down at the table and talk career strategy with me. He’ll have no choice but to comply once I put him in this food coma. I’m also convinced he doesn’t have a real date coming over. I have access to his Google Calendar now and when I just checked it, there was nothing on it that mentioned a date.
Which means it was yet another intended torture device for the night. He thinks I care if he has a date? Ha! Well, I…do, yes very much actually. But he will never get the satisfaction of knowing it.
I spend the next hour sorting ingredients, making the dough for the noodles and then cutting them out (yes, he required homemade noodles). I watch a YouTube video from a sweet angel who really holds my hand through the whole process, and by the time I’m finished with the noodles, I feel like Julia Child’s offspring. Next up is the sauce and it requires browning butter in a pan with garlic. My stomach growls so loud I’m sure it’ll be reported as an earthquake on the news later.
Before I know it, it’s time to add the chicken broth to the pot. So after measuring out two cups of disgusting-smelling liquid into a glass measuring cup, I lift it from the counter and turn toward the stove. Unfortunately, my hand collides with the chest of the man I never heard enter the room, and I dump the entire contents of that smelly chicken stock all over my shirt and jeans. The glass cup falls to the floor and shatters into a million pieces because gravity is not slacking on the job today.
I yelp and drop to the floor to pick up the glass shards so we don’t step on them, but before I can, Derek grabs me around the waist and hauls me up onto the counter. His look is pure thunder, and I think maybe this new Derek is a yeller and he’s about to lay into me for making a mess in his kitchen. But then he says something unpredictable. “Please tell me you did not just try to pick up that glass with your bare hands?”
He takes my hand in his, turning it palm up and studying it closely. My awareness zeroes in on the warm, rough skin of his fingers. How big and sure and capable his hand is. I notice other things too—like how clean he smells after his shower. How I think his bodywash smells so delicious I would consider drinking it. But it’s the fact that this scent is mixed with his natural smell—the smell that’s so Derek—it makes my insides twist and melt.
“It was a gut reaction. I’m so sorry about the mess. I promise I’ll…”
Derek’s hand drops mine to trail down my calf, forcing my leg to extend out where he can take my bare foot in his hand (because I’m not one of those people who wear outside shoes inside). My lips part and I suck in a soft breath at the feel of his hands gliding delicately over my ankle and the arch of my foot. It’s such an intimate touch. Kind and tender. Like some part of him remembers that he used to think I was precious to him.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up, but finally, I realize what he’s doing. He’s making sure I’m not cut.
“I’m fine.” I try to yank my foot away because I can’t handle the swarm of hot dragonflies that the touch of his hands has released in my stomach. I’m not supposed to feel this way toward him anymore. My body should not react to his body.
The pinched lines between his dark brows intensify when those bright blue eyes flick to mine. “Hold still. There’s glass stuck in the top of your foot.”
“There is?” I look down and then the room goes woozy. There’s a little trail of blood gliding down the top of my foot along with two small pieces of glass sticking out.
This is the end for me. Tell my mom I love her. Please send all my money to the Knitters of America Association because I feel like it’s an underappreciated operation and I’ve always wanted to learn to knit.
“Hey, whoa,” says Derek, stepping closer and dropping my foot to cradle the back of my head with his hand. I want to say it’s romantic, but really, it’s that he can see I’m seconds from passing out and doesn’t want my skull to crash back against his counter and cause an even bigger mess. Then he’d have glass and pieces of bone to clean up and that sounds like too much to do before a date.
“You still pass out at the sight of blood?”
I nod because that’s all I’m capable of doing at the moment.
He learned this about me the hard way in college when one of our friends took a Frisbee to the face and had a gushing bloody nose. I fainted on the spot and hit the ground. He had to take me to the ER because I had a mild concussion, and after I was discharged, he stayed awake with me all night watching The Office and feeding me candy.
The medical term is vasovagal syndrome, and it’s a heart condition where certain stressful triggers (mostly the sight of blood for me) can make my heart rate and blood pressure drop, which causes me to faint. But what most people hear is: a condition where Nora is a drama queen. In high school, girls thought I was faking it to steal the boys’ attention by fainting on my desk when Kathleen accidentally cut her hand during dissection week. It was so deep she needed stitches, and no one in her friend group forgave me that her crush—Cody—comforted me that day instead of her.
But my most recent ex-boyfriend just thought it was another over-the-top thing he could put on the mental tally sheet he was apparently keeping for how extra I am. As if I can control what my heart does. Involuntary or not, it was the final straw for him. He was playing a scrimmage basketball game with his friends and he took an elbow to the face that knocked out his front tooth and busted his lip. He ran over to me at the bleachers and showed me his mouth to assess the damage. There was so much blood. I fainted, and later when it was all settled, he broke up with me. He just said our relationship was too much. But what he meant was I was too much.
That’s all right. My mom taught me early on that I would never be everyone’s cup of tea, but that doesn’t mean I should change my flavor for anyone either. I let that boyfriend go—I wish I could let the sting of his rejection go too.
Derek is not treating me like I’m extra, though. His eyes and hands and voice are all gentle, which honestly surprises me.
He bends slightly to catch my gaze. “Focus on me. Forget you saw anything, okay?” His eyes look so soft right now—a stark contrast to his size and tattoos. Gone is the scowl from earlier, and for this brief moment, I’m looking into the face of the man I once loved. Who once loved me. Who worried more about me when I fainted than me making an embarrassing scene for him.
I nod again and now my attention is away from the blood and slipping to the place where his big hand is woven in the back of my hair. His other is gripping my hip. Does he realize he’s holding me so affectionately? Possessively? It’s not the kind of touch a stranger would give. It’s the kind that says You were mine once.
He leans over me then, his chest brushing mine as he snatches a magazine from the opposite side of the counter and then plops it in my lap. “Here. Look at this to distract yourself while I remove the glass.”
I must look pale all of a sudden because his hold on me tightens again.
“Breathe, Nora,” he reminds me gently before deciding I’m not safe sitting up. He takes a dish towel and folds it over until it’s a nice cushion and sets it a little way behind me.
“Lie back,” he commands, and really, it’s fine the way those words erupt over my skin. It’s fine and dandy and not at all concerning that my brain is so overloaded with ideas now I can barely think straight. I’m blaming it on the drop in my blood pressure.
I try to focus on the images in this junk mail department store magazine and block out the sensation of this man gingerly holding my foot as if I’m Cinderella. I’m aware of a tiny tinge of pain, but it’s nothing compared to the waves of heat bursting up my leg from Derek’s calluses lightly scraping over my skin. It’s been so long since I’ve been tenderly touched like this. Held. I mean, other men have held me since Derek, but…not in the way Derek ever did. Part of me has always worried that no one ever will either.
“Do you need a new three-piece suit?” I ask him, trying to get my thoughts to surface from the sexual-tension-filled pit they’ve fallen into.
“Huh? No.” He’s not paying attention to me. All his focus is on the glass removal. I feel a slight tug on the top of my foot, and he hisses in through his teeth. “Did that hurt?”
I shake my head and furiously flip through pages, desperate to not think about the cuts. “How about a new blender?” My voice is a squeaky toy. “An ornate glass vase thingy? Oh—look at this deal: Buy three pillow shams and get the fourth a whopping ten percent off. Wow. How do department stores even stay in business just giving things away like that?”
His hand squeezes around my ankle.
“Just a little more. Doesn’t look like it’ll need stitches.” He’s all compassion when another tug makes me shut my eyes. “Don’t pass out on me, rookie. I’m done with the removal. You can breathe.”
His hand stays fixed on the outside of my thigh as he reaches down the island to open a drawer, and I wonder if he even realizes he’s still holding me. He pulls out a little red-and-white first-aid kit, and pauses, frowning at the drawer. “Nora. Did you organize my junk drawer?”
“I did, yes.”
He continues staring at it and I can’t tell for sure but it looks like he’s fighting a smile. “According to color, though?”
“Well…yes. It makes the most sense that way, don’t you think? Because we can easily spot the color of something we’re looking for but it takes more brainpower to think of what category it would belong to.” I pause. “In full transparency I also organized your dish towel drawer. You were folding them the wrong way.”
His gaze slides to me. “And?”
I scrunch my nose. “Aaaand…your container drawer.”
He looks up at the ceiling and now I could swear it’s because he doesn’t want me to see him smile. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. He clears his throat and closes the junk drawer. “I would tell you not to organize anything in my house from now on, but it’s no use, is it? You’ll do it anyway.”
“That’s the most likely outcome, yes.” Another thing that really bothered my ex-boyfriend. My brain sits happier when things are in nice little rainbow rows.
He begins doctoring up my foot with antiseptic spray and bandages. “I guess that part of you hasn’t changed.”
Has he been assessing me for changes and similarities to my past self just like I’ve been doing with him? From the way he’s been treating me, I’d have suspected he never contemplated me beyond what task would be most annoying for me to complete.
“Okay, you’re all set,” he says, gently releasing my foot. It falls back down beside my other foot, all cold and bored now.
Derek extends his hand to help me sit up. But once I’m on his level again, he doesn’t step back. He’s standing closer than we’ve been since we broke up. In fact, he’s right between my legs. Legs that suddenly burn to wrap around his waist. His chilling blue eyes meet mine and flare as that old glimmer pulls taut between us. The air shifts entirely and it’s like we’re two different people. Or rather, two people we once were.
I don’t know who closes the distance, but somehow, we’re closer and his hands find my waist, shifting me more toward the edge of the counter. My inner thighs press against his hips, and our faces hover centimeters apart.
“Nora, are you…seeing anyone now?” Derek whispers so quiet it’s like he didn’t even want me to hear it. Like if the words are silent enough they don’t count.
“No.” My breath trembles out of me.
Derek’s gaze drops to my parted mouth, and without meaning to, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. His expression shifts to one of agony now, and I remember the rule I just broke.
Reality suspends, the world narrows, and it’s just us. Me and Derek. His face angles lower and mine lifts, removing that small gap between us. Our lips brush softly—not quite a kiss but more of a refrain. There’s no pressure or commitment to it, only a gesture laced with torture. Maybe this is our next unspoken competition: Who can withstand the tension the longest?
I want to snap and let go. I want to kiss Derek—this Derek—more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. It’s like I’m split down the middle, with half of me running as quickly away from him as possible, and the other considering climbing him and holding on for dear life. But most startling is the realization that when I look at Derek, some corner of my heart still says mine. Will that ever go away? Do I want it to?
I smell him and I need more pressure. I need to taste his mouth and see if it’s the same. He’s always been a drug that zips through my veins and alters me. This moment is no different.
His hands flex at my waist and my thighs tense around his hips. I breathe out and he breathes in like it’s what he’s been waiting for. Like he’s also struggling against the need to have just a little sample. But god help me if this happens…if we really give in to the tensions gripping us—there will be no stopping. No going back. We’ll still have to work together through whatever consequences our actions bring after the dopamine wears off. And as far as I remember, Derek Pender hates me these days.
It’s a sobering thought.
And just as I’m not sure who instigated this closeness, I’m not sure who pulls back first either. I just know that one second I’m drowning in desire and the next, Derek steps away as I push back farther onto the counter, putting much needed space between us. I press my hands to my overheated face and Derek watches me, taking one last look at my mouth. When his eyes meet mine again, I can tell he feels the same way I do. This was a mistake. And one we will never acknowledge.
Derek roughly rubs the back of his neck and then walks away. The glass crunches under his shoes. “I’ll get the broom.” He glances back at me and his eyes snag on my top before quickly darting away. He clears his throat. “And you can…borrow one of my shirts…if you want.” He must also be feeling pretty off-kilter from that almost-kiss to be showing me any kind of consideration.
“I’ll be fine until I get home. Besides, I think the smell of chicken broth suits me. Maybe it’ll become my new perfume, what do you think?” I attempt a joke, but my voice still sounds thick with…well…desire.
“Up to you. But if you change your mind, my room is upstairs. Second door on the right.”
“Really,” I say with a small laugh. “I’m not so high-maintenance that a little chicken broth smell is—” But I cut off when I finally look down at my broth-soaked T-shirt, and I realize why he’s avoiding looking at me now. The material has gone pretty much see-through against all my good bits. What a day to wear a thin rainbow print bralette. And there’s definitely a nipple situation happening now too.
“On second thought, you should never shit where your gift horse lies.” I slide around to the opposite side of the island.
“That’s definitely not how the phrase goes.”
“Close enough.” I hightail it upstairs, ready to shed my soaked shirt along with all this pesky sexual tension.
