Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

DANI

" A friend?" I echo in confusion.

I've never been friends with a guy. Hell, I've barely been friends with other women. Too busy, too prickly, too broke to do anything or go anywhere, I'm not exactly on anyone's short list of fun. Nessa and I have those things in common, which is why we work so well as friends.

But Kyle and me?

I don't think what I feel about him is friendly. In alternating moments, I either want to kill him with my bare hands or fuck him until we pass out in exhausted pleasure. That doesn't seem like any friendship I know.

But tonight has been fun. Working alongside each other, we've finished what would've taken me all evening in only a couple of hours, and I enjoyed our conversation, even though it was about a topic that's hard for me to talk about.

I hum as if I'm considering his proposal, cocking my head and peering at him like I'm measuring his friend-ability on some meter that only exists in my mind. In response, he leans back against the sink and crosses his arms over his thick chest and one leg over the other at the ankle. His icy blue eyes stare right back at me, a glint of arrogance dancing in their depths. "Well, what do you say?"

"I don't exactly have a lot of options," I hedge. "Just Nessa… and you . And she's never called me a bitch, kissed me, and then told me I need to get fucked." I hold up three fingers as I make the accusations.

He flashes that cocky grin of his because I absolutely just admitted to being way more affected by that night—and him—than I probably should've.

"Sounds like she's not a very good friend," he teases before leaning forward to push one of my fingers down, "and to be clear, I didn't say you needed to get fucked. I said you needed orgasms. The two are not the same, though I can see why you'd go straight to sex." He runs his hand over his chest like he knows those piercings are my weakness, letting his gaze turn heated and his voice go husky. "Friendship doesn't have to preclude that, though."

He's not pushing, but he's letting me know clearly that he's open to whatever I am. I think that's how Kyle lives his life—open to the possibilities. It's an intriguing approach, one I've never had the luxury of experiencing since I fight so damn hard just to make it through every single day. But even being this close to Kyle's light makes me feel like I'm circling the sun. Potentially getting a Vitamin D infusion, but also possibly getting burnt to a crisp.

"Yeah, I could probably take things to the next level with Nessa," I muse, looking off as though considering the idea.

He laughs good-naturedly, knowing I'm joking. "Two friends is two more than some people get. What more do you need, then?" As he poses the question, he throws his arms out, as if he's a prize and he knows it.

I need a lot of things.

I need my family to quit trying to marry me off to the first available man with a steady job. I need my business to thrive so I can pay my bills and prove to myself that I could've successfully run the restaurant if Papa had let me. I need the price of meat to stay where it is, or even better, go on sale next week. I need a shower. I need another kiss so good that the world completely stops for a moment. I need a kiss that makes me consider doing something for myself, even if it's ridiculously selfish. I need orgasms that'll make my body so boneless that I don't feel the exhaustion that's so normal to me that I can't remember a time when it didn't exist in the background of my consciousness.

"I need… dinner," I finally say. "You?"

I told Kyle I wouldn't feed him or his crew lunch as long as he's working for Kathy. Feeding him dinner after he helped me with the dishes seems reasonable enough, though.

Kyle groans, the sound vibrating in his chest. "Do you have any of that brisket—or whatever you made today—left? It smelled delicious." His eyes are filled with boyish hope that makes me smile.

"I might," I tease. "Rice and beans, too."

Kyle looks as though I promised him the winning lottery numbers.

Rather than feeling good about putting that excitement on his face, there's a pang in my gut. Am I seriously going to warm him up a plate the way I judged Mara for doing for Xavier? The way I judge Mama for doing for Papa? Despite all my arguments, am I stepping right into the caretaking role I've fought against?

"Woman, you are speaking my love language. Let's do it," Kyle cheers, not helping my internalized struggle.

What does help is… him.

Kyle doesn't sit down at the table, expecting me to serve him. He helps himself to my cabinets, opening one after the other. "Where are your dishes? Ah, here they are," he says as he spies the stack of thrift store plates I was so excited to find because it was a whole set—matching dinner plates, saucers, and bowls, all with pretty red flowers. Kyle pulls out two large plates, setting them on the counter. "I've got serving spoons and forks already. And no worries, I'll rewash them after we eat so you can close the kitchen for the night."

That right there. His awareness of what has to be done before I can guiltlessly fall into bed tonight is what sends me over the edge into action. Kyle doesn't want me to wait on him hand and foot. He wants to have dinner with me, working side by side, doing it all together.

"You thought it smelled good? Wait till you eat it." I'm fully confident in my food. Mama and Papa might irritate me, but they definitely taught me how to cook like a beast. There's a reason guys line up for my food, and it's not because it's cheap or convenient. Well, not just. It's because it's delicious.

Warming the food up doesn't take long, and in minutes, we're sitting down at the table with steaming plates in front of us. Kyle closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, and then starts to whisper.

Is he praying?

But then I hear his quiet words, "Don't shovel it in like you haven't eaten in days. Go slow, enjoy each bite. And for the love of fuck, don't chew with your mouth open."

I bark out a surprised laugh. That sounds more like what I expected from him. "You don't need fancy manners to eat at my table," I tell him, already taking my first big bite. There's no shame in my game. I'm hungry after a long day's work, so delicate nibbles and putting my fork down between bites isn't how I roll.

"Thank fuck," he sighs. Despite looking ready to attack the plate, he scoops up a reasonably-sized bite on his fork and slips it into his mouth. If I hadn't seen him do that, I'd be worried he was jacking off beneath the table because the moan he lets out is that sexual-sounding. "Holy shit, Dani. This is amazing." The words are said around a second mouthful that's shoved in before he swallows the first.

"Thank you." Pleased at his reaction, I can feel a blush rising on my cheeks. "What do you usually eat for dinner?"

It's admittedly a test question. So help me if he says cereal or whatever his mom made. Actually, scratch that… so help him because I will absolutely roast him if that's the case.

He swallows, seeming sad at having to pause before answering. "Chicken or beef if I've meal prepped that week. But more often than I should, I resort to pick-up orders from whatever place I'm passing on my way home from the job I'm on."

"You can cook, though?" I clarify.

"Depends on what you call cooking," he says, glancing at his plate, which is already half-empty. "I can grill, sauté, bake, and pan-fry chicken and steak. Boil water for pasta and rice. I know what a roux is and can follow a recipe, especially if it's got a video or pictures. It's not this " —he points to his plate with his fork before shoving another bite into his mouth— "but it gets me by. Or I thought it was. What'd you put on the brisket? Maybe I could do something like this for my meal prep?" he muses, sounding like he's considering recreating my recipe for himself.

Some people would be offended, especially if they're territorial with their recipes. What I heard is that Kyle doesn't expect me to do it for him, but rather, is willing to work for his own food.

That's important to a woman like me.

"Adobo sauce. I make it from scratch, but you can buy the store mix and get pretty close, too."

Kyle licks his fork obscenely, my eyes instantly zeroing in on what his tongue is doing, unconsciously imagining him doing it… elsewhere. "Damn, girl, your dad really screwed up not letting you take over the restaurant. This is ridiculous."

He says it so casually that I almost don't fully catch the impact, but it hits bullseye-center, anyway. My jaw drops open as I look at him in shock.

"What?" he says, acting innocent. Or at least what he must think that looks like because there's nothing innocent about Kyle.

"Too soon," I scold. But I can't fight the smile blooming on my face.

"Nah, you're tough. You can handle some shit-talking. You can dish it out too." He says that like it's a good thing as he sits back in his chair, patting his flat but apparently full belly. "Fuck, that was good. Thank you."

Usually, I'd spar back, but there's something happening inside my body that I'm trying to figure out. There's a heat… but it's not anger like I'm used to feeling. Nor is it arousal despite Kyle looking so sexy, stretched out at my table and complimenting me. It's something else, something in my chest that feels like pride.

Pride because I am tough, and that someone I've known for such a short period of time—and not always at my best—can see that in me so readily. But it's not about Kyle. It's about me.

I might not be running my family restaurant, but I'm doing something almost better—creating my own path, fighting for every difficult step toward success, and doing it against all odds.

"You're welcome," I say simply, but then add, "but I'm still not feeding you and your guys lunch."

He mimes stabbing himself in the heart.

Finished with my plate too, I get up. I purposefully don't reach for Kyle's plate as I go to the sink. Is it another test? Absolutely. But where I would usually expect him to fail, I'm secretly hoping he'll pass.

He does, immediately hopping up to come to my side and scrub his plate. We get our dinner dishes dried and put away, and then we both stop, facing each other in front of the sink. It's a spot I spend a fair portion of my days in, but this feels very different from those times. This feels… big. Especially when he looks at me, his gaze drifting from my left eye to my right, and then down to my lips. I watch as the very corners of his mouth tilt up in the tiniest hint of a smile, and for a moment, I think he's gonna kiss me again. I stopped him last time, but I've been obsessively replaying it in my mind ever since, and I'm still not sure I made the right decision.

This time, I'm planning it out in my head, thinking about it, even wanting it. His kiss, maybe more, maybe a lot more, like what he promised.

Will he be gentle or take my mouth powerfully? Will he push me against the counter or simply sip at me where I stand? Cup my jaw or let his hands trace down to my hip? Is he going to grab my ass the way he did when he had me against the door? That had nearly been my undoing, and I swear I felt the scalding mark of his touch for hours after that because it had been a sharp reminder of just how long it'd been since someone had touched me that way.

I part my lips, a tiny breath passing over them as I make my decision and surrender to my body's needs, even if only for a moment.

So I'm blindsided when he scratches at his bottom lip with his thumb and says, "Uh, I should probably get going. Peanut Butter's gonna wonder if I've ditched him for another dog."

"Oh!" I exclaim, disappointment flooding through me, which is immediately followed by something more familiar—anger. I'm mad at myself for having a moment of weakness, because even if Kyle didn't take me up on it, he knows what I'm thinking. I'm sure it's written all over my face. I step back, putting distance between us well beyond the two feet of space I add. "I didn't even think about…"

He shrugs easily, but his usual smile is missing and his eyes haven't moved from where they're locked on mine. "All good. He's probably getting spoiled as fuck at my brother's house. Not eating as good as I did" —he looks at me pointedly, making sure I hear the compliment again— "but his boiled chicken and sweet potato puree is nothing to sneeze at."

He moves toward his wallet, and I put a hand on his forearm. "No, I don't want your money anymore. If we're not enemies?—"

"Friends," he corrects.

"Maybe-friends," I concede, "don't hold it against each other when they get a little temperamental, so you don't owe me anything."

He smiles, seeming pleased at my generosity. "Your call."

But then he cocks his head, one brow lifted and suggests, "Maybe-friends can hold other things against each other, though, like their bodies." He says it lightly, with zero heat, but a jolt of desire shoots through me, anyway.

But my moment of weakness has passed and I laugh. "Is that all you think about? Guys are such horndogs."

He ducks his chin, feigning shyness even though he's nothing of the sort. Through his lashes, he looks up at me and drawls out, "Usually, I'm not. I think about all kinds of things—work, my dog, my crew, my family. Lately? You're front and center in my mind—what you're doing, who you're doing it with, if you're mad at me, if you even noticed whether I'm next door. And yeah, I think about that kiss, how you tasted, and wonder how sweet you are in other places. I think about turning the fire inside you into an inferno and wonder if you fuck as good as you fight." He leans forward, getting his cheek as close to mine as he can across the space I now regret adding, and whispers, "'Cuz I do, Dani."

My breath hitches, and I swear my pussy starts celebrating, hopeful to finally get some dick that's worth a damn.

When he stands up tall again, his grin is full of wicked promises.

I should probably be offended, or at least act like I am, but I can't fight the answering smile that steals across my face. "Let's start with you not owing me Joshua's daily rate and see from there."

"Deal," he replies.

I walk him to the door, and this time when he pulls away from the curb out front, I don't flip him off or curse him in my head. I wave goodbye.