Kyla moves easily to the massive refrigerator, pulling two bottles of light beer from within. I’ve never understood the necessity for an appliance that big, especially those fancy ovens that cook all sorts of different things at the same time. Of course, I’m a simple man. As long as I have a stovetop, a microwave, and a small refrigerator freezer that keeps my stuff cold, I’m good.
She pulls a bottle opener out of a drawer and pops the tops off. When she slides one my way, I take a long drink. The beer isn’t my usual brand, but it’s not bad. Kyla takes a small gulp before setting her beer down on the counter. “I guess I should have asked if there was anything you didn’t like, but I recall you mentioning a shellfish allergy,” she states, pulling a pan of something mouthwatering from the oven.
I almost reply to her comment. I love fish, actually. Whitefish and crab are one of my favorites to splurge on at one of the restaurants back home. But not Matthew. He’s allergic, something we found out the hard way when we were on vacation down in Florida around the age of five. He used to carry an EpiPen, just in case, but since I haven’t spoken to him much in the last handful of years, I’m not sure if he still does.
“Whatever you decided on smells amazing,” I state, leaning against the counter and watching her finish preparing dinner.
She stops and gives me a soft smile.
“What?” I ask, feeling a little uncomfortable under her gaze.
“I’ve just can’t get over seeing you so casual,” she says, returning her attention to the oven and pulling a second pan from within. She closes the door and turns off the unit, tossing the hot potholders onto the counter. “Jeans and boots? Not to mention the stubble. I never would have thought I’d see the day,” she adds, averting her gaze, but not before I see the blush return. “I think I like it.”
I take another drink of my beer to hide my smirk and watch her uncover the second pan. “Are those Brussels sprouts?”
She hesitates. “They are. I wasn’t sure if you’d eat them or not, but I can whip up another vegetable if you’d prefer. These just looked so good, and I remembered seeing a recipe for them with cauliflower and—”
“Kyla.” I cut her off, touching my finger to her bottom lip. Big mistake. All I want to do now is kiss the hell out of her again. I drop my hand, as if I were being burned, and add, “I love Brussels sprouts and cauliflower. I’m sure whatever you made is delicious. It smells like heaven.”
“Okay,” she whispers, taking a deep breath. “There’s bacon and parmesan cheese in there too.”
“I can’t wait.” And I can’t. I’m starved and everything smells amazing.
I watch as she scurries over to the fridge and grabs a salad bowl and dressing. She sets the large bowl beside the entrée and sides before retrieving dinner plates, bowls, and silverware. When she seems to have everything she needs, she waves her hand toward the food. “Grab a plate.”
“Ladies first,” I state, propping my hip back against the counter.
“But you’re my guest.”
I shrug. “My mama would smack me upside the head if I made a plate before all the ladies in the room.”
The sweetest giggle spills from her lips. “Well, I’d hate to upset Mama. How about we do it together?”
I realize she’s talking about making a plate, but that’s not where my mind goes. It lands firmly in the middle of a porn, starring none other than Miss Kyla Morgan. Oh, the things I’d love to do. To her. With her. Together.
Forcing the dirty images parading through my brain out of my mind, I grab the two plates, handing her one, and help myself to the chicken. They’re stuffed with what looks like spinach and something gooey, most likely cream cheese. I can’t wait to dig in.
While I scoop some of the fancy Brussels sprouts onto my plate, Kyla takes one of the smaller pieces of chicken and starts doling out two salads in the bowls. When my plate is full, I glance around for seating.
“We can eat in the dining room, but I thought, maybe, we could just eat in here.”
I glance over at the breakfast nook with bench seating and a small table. It looks cozy and perfect to me. Heading for the table, I set my plate and bowl down and return to the counter to help carry drinks.
When we’re both situated, we dive into the food she prepared. I almost moan in pleasure when I take my first bite of the stuffed chicken. It’s fucking phenomenal. Creamy cheese and tender meat. I’m not sure the spinach really adds much flavor, but it’s good, nonetheless.
Glancing around, I notice how formal everything is here. It actually really reminds me of my brother’s place, if not a little pricier than his. Kyla definitely shelled out some dough for this place. I can see the dining room from where I sit. It’s awfully prim and fancy, and while it fits with the penthouse vibe, it doesn’t really fit Kyla. In fact, the table we’re sitting at feels a little more like her style. It’s a light maple wood which matches the cabinets, but it has a more laid-back feel. As if you’d see a small family sitting around this table, enjoying a cereal breakfast or mac and cheese lunch.
“Did you decorate this place when you bought it?” I ask, hoping I’m not stepping in it by asking a question I should already know the answer to.
She keeps her eyes cast down as she cuts her sprouts and cauliflower into smaller pieces. “No, my father had it decorated for me before he gave me this place.”
I watch her until she meets my gaze. “So you didn’t get to pick anything out?”
Kyla raises a single shoulder before taking
