“Hey.” I smile, giving him a little wave, flinging tomato sauce everywhere and then wrinkling my nose. “Sorry.” I lean over with a towel and clean a dollop of sauce off the wall.
“What have you got going on?” he asks, walking in the kitchen and looking over my shoulder.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle at his nearness, and I suppress the urge to shudder.
“Making lasagna for dinner tomorrow. I’m just going to have it ready to go in the fridge.”
“Looks yummy,” he says, resting his shoulder against the wall where I just cleaned off the sauce.
“It will be. Speaking of, would you like to go eat said yummy lasagna with me at Jules and Mason’s house tomorrow night?” I stop what I’m doing and expectantly look at him.
“If food is involved, I’m there.”
He smiles, and I grin back, my heart fluttering wildly in my chest.
“Perfect.”
Ben helps me finish preparing the lasagna, quiet while I chatter, filling the room with sound as I talk about nothing.
His arm bumps mine every once in a while, and I bump his back, sending a smile his way. When his eyes meet mine, I can sense the attraction. It’s like a song and dance, where we tiptoe around each other, no one wanting to make the first move. He jerks his spoon a little, flicking tomato sauce on my hand, and I lift it, smearing it across his cheek with a giggle.
“Oh, it’s on,” he says, jumping back, holding the spoon out as a weapon, waving it slightly, keeping me from advancing.
I reach out, swiping my finger in the leftover sauce, and jump toward him, the mirth in his eyes spurring me on.
He moves back, hitting the wall, and I manage to swipe the sauce on his other cheek. He drops the spoon, and his hand comes around my back, holding me to him as we stand there, breathing heavily. His cheeks are pink, and the sauce drips down one side to slide along his chin. I reach to wipe it off before it drops onto his shirt.
“You had a little sauce on your face,” I whisper as he stares down at me, eyes bright.
My heart races, and I want to push up on my toes and press my lips to his. Before I can, he pulls his arm away, letting go of me, and I move back a little from the sudden release.
“We should have food fights more often,” he says with a wink, looking unaffected while I’m a huge ball of emotions. Namely, the sort that causes you to jump into bed with someone. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up.”
With another smile, he walks down the hall, and I spin, trying to busy myself with covering the lasagna dish before I race down the hall and jump on his back, tackle him to the floor and have my way with him.
9 Ben
The next evening, I walk into the kitchen, where Pepper is up to her elbows in chocolate, an adorable patch of flour smeared on her cheek, while a timer is going off. The kitchen looks worse than the day before.
“Benjamin,” she says, looking up with a smile, “could you help me here?” She jerks her head to the side where the timer is screeching, and I reach over to silence it. “The lasagna is ready to come out. Will you grab it from the oven?”
God, all of this food smells amazing.
I can’t help but sniff the air as I pull the bubbling lasagna out of the oven. I lean back against the counter and watch Pepper pour some chocolate mixture into a pan. She lightly runs a spatula over the top of it and then sets the mixing bowl in the sink. She has an apron tied around her outfit, and it’s coated with splatters of chocolate and tomato sauce. She’s not a tidy cook, but if the food tastes as good as it smells, I couldn’t care less.
“Thanks,” she says as she finishes closing the oven on the pan and dusts her hands off on her apron.
“You got a little …” I point at my cheek, showing her where the flour smudge is on her face.
I don’t trust myself to clean it off on my own after yesterday and our small food fight. One touch would lead to two, and I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of her. I mean, as long as she wanted it too. But I can’t go there. She’s made no indication that she wants to take things further. Usually, I would just go for it, but it’s different when it’s someone you live with.
“You clean up well,” she says, running the back of her hand across her cheek and smearing the flour more than cleaning it off.
I give her a nod before running water in the sink. Anything to take my mind off of getting my hands around her luscious curves. I don’t know why I’m torturing myself by staying in this tiny kitchen space with her.
“Oh no, you don’t have to clean the dishes,” she says with a laugh as she tries to hip-bump me out of the way.
“I want to,” I say, my tone coming out more gruff than I intended, and she stops.
She looks at me, her lips pursed, head cocked to the side, before she shrugs and starts to wipe down the counters. We work in silence for a bit, which feels strange. There’s only a brush of the arm here and a side-step there, which keeps my senses on high alert, causing me to adjust myself behind my jeans several times.
“Okay, the timer for the brownies should go off in a few minutes,” Pepper says, checking her phone. “I’m going to go change, and then we should be ready to go.”
I felt like something was off this whole time, and now, I realize it’s because Pepper wasn’t talking. The chatterbox always has something to say. The girl can talk
