“Only beetroot.” I shudder at the thought.
“Okay, you’re safe then.” He smiles and turns back to his bag, searching through the cupboards and drawers until he finds my chopping board and the one sharp knife I own.
It’s strange, watching him in there. He’s almost too big for the place. My kitchen is comprised of only six base cupboards with drawers, four top cupboards, a sink, a fridge, and an oven that’s on its last legs. Compared to his sleek, shiny gloss kitchen, mine is like one from The Hobbit, but he doesn’t seem too fazed as he pulls more ingredients from the bag and sets them on the side before washing his hands.
Twisting my seat so I can see him and resting my chin on my hand, I watch, transfixed, as Jared sets about making dinner. He’s a competent chef; I can tell that by how confident and methodical he is as he chops vegetables. It’s surprisingly sexy to watch him cook. He’s taken off his cufflinks and tie and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, so I can see his tanned forearms.
He tidies up after himself as he goes, washing up things he used and wiping over the sides. It’s almost OCD tidy. I bite my lip and smile, my eyes drifting over his back and pert little behind, watching the muscles in his shoulders and arms as he fries what smells like onions and garlic, chops salad, and cracks eggs. He really came prepared!
Jared is most definitely not my usual type. My usual type is silly, goofy, happy-go-lucky, and a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants guy, who, I’ll admit, is likely to still live at home with his mum. Jared is none of that. He’s dependable, organised, and someone you call when you need an adult. It’s different but extremely nice.
Half an hour later, he comes back to me, carrying a plate of something that smells so good that my mouth waters. He sets a can of Dr Pepper—which I know I didn’t have any of, so he must have brought those over too—on the coffee table and passes me a plate containing a wedge of something he made and an artfully arranged side salad. It’s probably the healthiest thing I’ve eaten in weeks. I’m more of a microwave meal or frozen pizza kind of girl.
He smiles almost shyly as I look over at him.
“This looks so good!” I gush. “What is it?” I pick up my knife and fork, cutting into it, my eyes widening as I spot a big slab of cheese on the top.
“Halloumi, red onion, and spinach frittata.”
“You had me at halloumi.” I nod appreciatively.
“Yeah, I figured that would be a hit with my cheese lover.”
I’ve never eaten a frittata before. It sounds like something you’d order off a menu. He stands there, watching, seeming almost worried as I eagerly cut into it and blow on it before taking a tentative bite. I can’t help but moan in appreciation as the flavours hit my tongue. It’s incredible.
“Oh my God,” I mumble, my mouth full. “This is like an orgasm on the tongue. I think we should get married.” It’s only a joke but not really.
“Wow, what a proposal,” he replies, grinning so big that he gets those little lines around his eyes again. He winks at me and heads to the kitchen to get his drink and plate. Then, he comes back and plops down onto the sofa next to me.
“Do you eat like this all the time?” I ask, greedily shovelling in my food.
He shrugs. “Yeah, I like to cook. It’s relaxing. My mum taught me. She’s a chef, so I picked up a few things before I went off to university.”
“Lucky. All my mum taught me about food was how to open jars and how long to microwave bacon for.” I wince at the admission. Cooking is not one of my family’s skill sets. “Also, no wonder you look like that”—I wave my fork at his chest and stomach—“if you eat this healthy kind of stuff every day.”
He shrugs. “I told you, I run a bit too. At lunchtimes and sometimes before work if I have time. I keep in shape because, twice a year, I run a half-marathon to raise money for a dementia charity.”
I raise a suitably impressed eyebrow at the revelation. “Really? A half-marathon?”
He nods. “Yeah, my grandmother had dementia, so I do what I can.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach out and squeeze his arm.
He shrugs and shakes his head, smiling sadly. “It’s okay. She died a while ago, but I like to give back and do what I can. I enjoy running, so it’s not such a hardship,” he replies, finishing his food.
He watches as I devour the last couple of bites of my food, even forcing in the salad to try and impress him. I put my empty plate next to his on the coffee table and resist the urge to lick it clean.
“So … do I get points for effort?” He raises his eyebrows, and I know what he’s asking.
I press my lips into a thin line to suppress my smile as I pretend to consider, secretly knowing I’d do whatever he wanted tonight even if he hadn’t just cooked the best damn meal I’d eaten in forever. “That depends … did you bring any dessert?”
He nods smugly. “French macaroons.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Oh, well then, you definitely get points for effort,” I reply, laughing as he drops his head back, closes his eyes, and pumps the air with one fist in celebration.
“So, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about,” he says, kissing the skin below my belly button, his teeth scraping against my oversensitive skin.
It’s now Sunday morning, and we’ve spent a blissful weekend together, just hanging out and lazing around.
I close my eyes and softly brush my fingertips across his shoulders, enjoying the sensation. “Hmm?” I’ve not long ago woken up, and I’m so relaxed that I’m almost serene.
“I was wondering,” he says, “if you wanted to be exclusive with me.”
My whole body jerks in shock, and I accidentally knee him in the stomach. He grunts in surprise, and I gasp.
“Oh my God, sorry. Are you okay? I … I …” I wince, sitting up and looking down at him apologetically as I hold the sheet against my naked body.
He laughs and pulls himself up to sitting, too, rubbing at his stomach as he rolls his eyes. “Was it that unexpected?”
Unexpected? Hells yes! Never in my wildest dreams did I expect those words to come from his mouth this early on—okay, so, in my wildest dreams, yes, but not in real life.
“You want to be exclusive?” I ask quietly, my voice barely working.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Well, I’m not interested in seeing anyone else. Are you?”
I shake my head. I haven’t been interested in anyone else for months. Only him. “No.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, interlacing our fingers, and I pray my palm isn’t sweating from nerves. He shuffles closer to me, our bodies only a hair’s breadth away from each other.
“Amy, I really like you. You’re amazing, we get on great, I’m really interested to see where this will go between us, and I can’t think of anyone else I want to be naked with. That pretty much all leads to exclusivity in my book. I don’t want you seeing other guys. The thought of it …” He huffs out a breath and shakes his head as his eyebrows pull together in a frown. “No, I don’t like the thought of that at all.”