Charlotte grabbed silverware and napkins and took them to the table, where he was now sitting in a chair across from the one she was supposed to sit in.
Charlotte had never been on a proper date. Or any kind of date, come to think of it. She was the epitome of inexperienced.
But she did watch a lot of movies, and this whole setup felt a lot like a date. The very thought of it unnerved her.
“You okay?” he asked.
She sat. “Confused, I think.”
“Why?”
She unfolded the napkin and laid it on her lap.
“I can’t figure you out,” she said. “To be honest, I thought I annoyed you.”
He picked up the salt and generously shook it onto his food before even tasting it. “You don’t.”
She watched as he cut into his chicken and took a bite, finally meeting her eyes. When she realized he wasn’t going to elaborate, she turned her attention to the plate he’d created for her. It not only smelled good, it looked beautiful. Maybe Cole had missed his calling as a chef.
“It almost looks too good to eat,” she said.
He brought his eyes to hers.
“Thanks, but it’s made to be eaten.” He took another bite.
“Did you see the newspaper?” she asked.
He nodded. A man of very few words. Charlotte wasn’t sure she could hold up both ends of this conversation, but Cole seemed to be the king of one-word (or no word) answers.
“The first rehearsal is tomorrow,” she said, working overtime to try and fill the gaps of silence left by her dinner companion. “For the tribute dances I’m choreographing, I mean. The students have been learning their recital pieces for a while now.”
He nodded as he chewed.
“I didn’t ask your team to be there because that’s a big group, and I’ve already met with them once. You’ll be shocked—some of them are actually decent dancers.”
“Did you have any trouble with them?” he asked, his gaze fixed on her.
She shook her head. “No, they were very well behaved.”
He nodded. “Good.”
She glanced down at her plate.
“Is it okay?”
She’d hardly eaten for all the talking she’d been doing. His plate, on the other hand, was almost clean.
“It’s really good.” She took a bite, still surprised by how good it was. She’d been making chicken for years and it had never tasted like this. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
He set down his fork, picked up his napkin, and wiped his mouth. “Cooking class.”
She nearly choked on her water. “You took a cooking class?”
“As a favor to—” He looked away. “I had my arm twisted.”
She swallowed and took a drink of water. “Girlfriend? Bad break-up?”
“Wife. And yes.”
Wife? He was married?
Something in the way he said it told her that topic was not up for discussion, much like almost every other topic she could imagine, since Cole Turner wasn’t one to discuss anything.
Was this what everyone was always hinting about whenever his name came up? All the hushed, gossipy comments about “all he’d been through”—was that about some mysterious wife whose heart he’d broken? Or who had broken his heart?
Would she ever know?
“You?”
She glanced up. “Me what?”
“Ever married?”
Was that a thing people asked—like “have you ever had sushi?” When she got married, she was getting married for life.
“Um, no.”
“Probably smart.” He put his silverware and napkin on his plate.
“It’s not a choice,” she said. “Or at least not a conscious one.” She took a bite. “I’ve never even had a boyfriend.”
He stopped moving and stared at her. “Never?”
It wasn’t a conscious choice to tell him that either. Her mouth seemed to have a mind of its own.
“Never.” She shrugged, smiled, played it off like it was perfectly normal in her line of work even though she knew it absolutely was not.
She was the weirdo who’d never dated anyone. The head-down, get-it-done ballerina with something to prove, though she’d never quite figured out who she was proving it to. Her mother? Herself? There was a part of her that cried out, Am I good enough yet? but who was she hoping would answer that question?
“Was that a choice?”
She covered her plate with her napkin. “It was a choice to dance.”
He eyed her like he was trying to make heads or tails of her, like he didn’t know what to make of what she was saying. It made her feel even more like a weirdo. “So, this dance thing—it was a big deal.”
“It was everything,” she said.
“Yeah, it seems like you’d have to give up a lot to get to where you are.” He took a drink of water.
She frowned. How did he know where she was? Before she could ask, he set his drink down and met her eyes.
“So, have you ever been on a date?” He watched her curiously, as if she were an animal behind glass at the zoo.
“I dated dance,” she said with another shrug. “That was all I had time for.”
And it’s why I left. I’m looking to go out and get a life and friends and maybe even a boyfriend and I’m wondering a lot about you, Cole Turner. Would you make a good first boyfriend? And what would it be like to kiss you?
The thoughts sent heat to her cheeks.
She suddenly felt vulnerable, like she’d said too much. She wasn’t hiding it, the fact that there was a whole long list of things she’d never done—but she didn’t want to go around publicizing it either.
And she especially didn’t want to talk about it with Cole. As if she needed another reason to feel foolish in his presence.
And as soon as he realized that never having dated meant a lot of other things she’d never done, she was going to feel even more ridiculous than she did right now.
She stood abruptly, piled her silverware onto her plate and her plate onto his, then walked into the kitchen. “That was really good,” she called over her shoulder. “Like, one of the best meals I’ve had in a really long time.”
She turned and found he’d followed her and now she was hollering for nothing.
“Sorry,” she said.
He stood in the doorway, backlit by the light from the dining area. He was deliciously handsome. How she could think that of someone she truly disliked was one of life’s great injustices. She shouldn’t find him appealing for the sole reason that he wasn’t a nice person.
In her mind, she saw him pick up Asher’s little brother and prop him up on his shoulder for a victory lap after his remarkable touchdown.
Fine, maybe he was nice. But he wasn’t nice to her.
She looked down at the plates. Making her dinner had been pretty nice. The thought kicked her nerves up like dust from a shaken blanket.
“I should probably get cleaned up and get to bed. I have an early run,” she said.
“Let me help.” He brushed past her as he walked toward the stove. “I made the mess.”
“I think the rule is that if you cook, you don’t have to clean.” She opened the dishwasher and began rinsing off the plates. His nearness sent her insides swirling, like she was riding circles on a merry-go-round.