“What’s wrong?” I ask, straightening as much as possible.
“Nothing,” she says absently. “Nothing.” She forces a quick smile and starts toward the kitchen. “Mind if I go through your fridge and cabinets?”
I don’t like her brush-off one bit and hate that I can’t even follow her easily. “Sure. Help yourself,” I call out, reaching for my crutches. They’re a mandatory precaution over the next couple of days. My knee is already feeling better from the fall, and I’m sure I could limp around fine now, but I’ve spent enough time being stupid and making bad decisions. I need to give my recovery every chance it can get, so if it means using crutches to get around my small apartment, then so be it. Hell, I gave up sex with my smoking hot girlfriend.
Girlfriend?
I stall at the blurted thought. We just met, and she’s never said anything to indicate she’d want that. If anything, she’s spent as much time pushing me away as pulling me close. And yet, my subconscious was clearly trying to tell me something just now. Probably that I’m in deep shit because I can’t imagine myself with another woman anymore. Now that I’ve glimpsed the girl in the mirror, I’m hopelessly hooked.
When I finally make my way to the kitchen, I stop cold. Warmth spreads through me in a sweet ache at the scene. Genevieve has a pile of ingredients on the counter, her hair twisted up and out of her way like she means business. Her teeth sink into her lower lip as she studies the container of fresh pasta and vegetables with a mystified expression. God, I’ve never seen anything so adorable in my life. It takes my entire arsenal of willpower not to interrupt her.
She must hear me in the doorway, however, and glances over with a quick warning look. “Don’t try to stop me. I want to make you dinner.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. Geez, I’m even getting hard over this. She’s just so damn amazing. I pull out the chairs at the table so I can sit in one and prop up my leg on the other. There’s no way in hell I’m missing a second of this. I might even sneak a couple photos and videos for my own enjoyment later.
She turns back to the counter, visibly bracing herself, and I prepare to keep my mouth shut until she asks for help.
“What are you making?” I ask, eyeing her curious mix of ingredients. Pasta, sure. Vegetables, maybe some weird salad? Eggs and milk, no idea. The dietician doesn’t need to know about this.
“Um…” She picks up the package of pasta. “Linguine,” she reads. “And something else. I’m not sure yet.”
I smile to myself as she continues reading the label. She frowns and focuses back on the other ingredients.
“Only two minutes to cook?” she asks.
“It’s fresh. It doesn’t take as long as the dried stuff.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure she knows what any of that means anyway as she places the package back on the counter and begins fishing through the drawers and cabinets.
“What do you need?” I ask.
“Cutting board and knife?”
“There’s a cutting board in the drawer beside the range, and knives are in the knife block by the microwave.”
She finds the cutting board, but the knife block proves to be a more worthy opponent. She touches each handle timidly, sliding it slowly from the block to check the blade, and I try to suppress my shock. Has she never handled a knife before? Shit, I don’t need her cutting off any fingers on my watch.
“Gen? Do you know how to use a knife?”
She twists a look toward me and bites her lip. Her eyes well with such shame and embarrassment, my own chest hurts. God, this girl. She’s in my soul.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’d fucking break the microphone trying to sing. Bring the one in the top left corner of the block over to the table, along with the cutting board and that bell pepper. The big green one,” I clarify when she scans the vegetables with confusion. “Oh, and that small knife in the center row on the block. That’s a paring knife.”
She nods, her lip quivering as she collects the materials.
“Hey, Gen?”
She looks over with concern.
“You’re a badass. You know that?”
A smile slips over her lips as she blinks away the tears. “Should I wash the pepper first? I should, right?”
I show Genevieve how to use a knife, and just as I suspect, she’s a pro in no time. Her problem is experience, not competence, and I have a feeling there are a lot of things she could do if she only gave herself the chance to try.
She stares triumphantly at her piles of chopped vegetables, and I can’t help but snap a photo. Her shy look shifts into radiance when she realizes I want to preserve this moment because I’m so damn proud of her.
“That’s a lot of vegetables,” she says, scanning the mounds of cucumbers, peppers, carrots, tomatoes, and every other ingredient she could find.
“So many vegetables,” I say with a laugh, plucking a cucumber from the bowl. “What are you doing with them?”
“Um. Well.” She squints back at the counter. “I wanted to make a salad, but you don’t have any lettuce. So, I guess… a bowl of chopped vegetables?”
I laugh and shrug. “A bowl of chopped vegetables. My favorite.”
“I thought maybe an egg or something too. For protein?”
Hmm… okay... I decide not to ask about the milk. Maybe she’ll forget. “You could boil eggs and throw one on top. There’s a vinaigrette in the fridge you could use as well if you want to season… it.” Not sure what to call whatever she’s making.
Her expression brightens, and I can tell she’s
