Chapter Twelve

"How the hell have you made it this long without getting scurvy?"

Truly crossed her arms. "Um, maybe because I'm not a pirate during the seventeenth century, Colin."

"Scurvy still affects seven percent of the US population today, Truly," he said, studying the contents of her refrigerator with a scowl.

"Wikipedia spiral?"

"Don't change the subject," he chided, cheeks pink. "Your fridge is empty."

"It is not. I have cheese—"

"You have Velveeta. You have cheese product—"

"I have cheese, onions, and um—oh, hey! Look, I have Swiss cheese! Ha! Real cheese! Slices of it... four of 'em. Ha."

Colin checked the expiration date, lips wavering like he was trying hard not to smile. "Expires tomorrow."

"You know, you're sure acting awfully pretentious for a guy whose ass is hanging out of his borrowed apron."

He reached back, adjusting the bow tied over his bare butt.

You're delusional if you think I'm wearing your ex's sweats, he'd said.

It wasn't like she owned anything else that would fit him. Her Lululemon yoga leggings would've been obscene on him, and he'd have definitely hung out from her pair of Soffe shorts, a holdover from her days in high school cheer.

Cooking naked sounded like a recipe for disaster, so bare ass in an apron it was until his boxers finished their spin cycle.

And what an ass it was.

"When you said the contents of your fridge were lean, I wasn't expecting a Chopped situation." He shoved aside her oat milk and pickles, the wrinkle between his brows deepening.

She had bread and cheese and onions and—butter? She was pretty sure she had butter. And a drawer full of spices, and a freezer full of ice cream and frost-burned broccoli. It was hardly as dire as he was making it sound. "If you aren't up for the task—"

"Oh no, I'm up for the task," he said, reaching into her cabinet and pulling out a frying pan. "I just hate to think what you'd do without me here."

"Lucky for me, I guess I won't have to find out."

And that was a corny as hell thing to say. She'd written some cheeseball lines in her life that made her cringe when she reread them, but she'd never actually said anything that corny. Corny and presumptuous. She was diligently avoiding thinking about what this night meant—was this a hookup? One of those non-date dates Colin talked about? The beginning of something more? Insinuating that there was longevity here was too close to a conversation that she wasn't ready to have tonight.

Colin set the frying pan down with a clatter and stalked toward her in a way that should've been laughable—he was wearing a too-small, cream-colored apron with the words baking, because murder is wrong, emblazoned in hot pink, a gag gift from Lulu—but there was nothing laughable about those quads or the soft look of single-minded focus on his face.

Her breath caught as his hands circled her waist, lifting her up and setting her down onto the counter without even a grunt. He framed her face with his hands, easy to do when they were that big, and tilted her chin, leaving her with no choice but to look directly at him. "If anyone's lucky, it's me."

It didn't sound corny coming out of his mouth.

She swallowed thickly and gave him a gentle push, her hand falling to her lap. "I don't know if you'll be saying that if you don't feed me soon."

Colin laughed. "Are you saying the way to your heart is through your stomach?"

"I'm saying I turn into a real bitch when I'm hungry."

"Hm." He opened the fridge. "And that's different than the rest of the time, how?"

"Hey!" She laughed and hurled the dish sponge at him. It sailed over his shoulder and into the vegetable drawer. "Rude."

"I didn't say it was a bad thing." He shut the fridge with his hip, his hands full. "I kind of like it when you get all bitchy." He threw a wolfish grin at her over his shoulder. "It's hot."

"You know how I called you a little odd? I was wrong. You're very odd."

"And you like me anyway." He dropped a kiss against her forehead as he passed on the way to the stove. Her heart squeezed at the domesticity of it all, how right it felt despite being new. "Think that says more about you than it does me."

She bit back a smile but didn't deny it. She did like him. And not just because he gave great head and could apparently cook. Though, that was a plus. "What are you making me?"

"Grilled cheese with caramelized onions. Sound okay?"

Her stomach rumbled. "Sounds amazing." Better than anything she would've whipped up with the abysmal contents of her refrigerator. "Can I help?"

"I don't know. Can you?"

"Ha ha." She hopped off the counter and padded across the kitchen on bare feet. "I can actually cook, you know."

Like five things and only half of them required an Instant Pot or air fryer.

"Hey, it's okay. There's got to be something you suck at. Keep the balance and all that."

"I almost sensed, like, half a compliment in that."

"I'll bite," he said. "What can you cook?"

"Okay, let's see... pasta—"

"You can boil water, congratulations."

"Ass. Okay, maybe I rely on a decent amount of takeout, but that's only because I tend to let my kitchen get a little lean while I'm on deadline."

"Uh-huh. And you're on deadline how many weeks out of the year?" he asked, managing to call bullshit without saying the word.

"A lot of them," she grumbled. "Look, maybe I'm no chef, but I'm perfectly capable of chopping vegetables and buttering bread."

His eyes raked over her, gaze hot, the way his teeth sank into his bottom lip even hotter. "Shame we don't have an apron for you."

It was a tiny galley kitchen, arguably too small for two adults to move around in comfortably, but they made it work. His hands settled on her hips, drawing her against him so he could reach past her for a spatula. She pointed at the napkins on too high a shelf for her to reach without climbing on the counter and Colin handed them to her. They needed to switch places and Colin grabbed her by the hand and twirled her, humming a tune under his breath, making her laugh when he dipped her low like they were on a dance floor instead of in her cramped kitchen, cheap linoleum under their bare feet.

"I like your apartment," he said later, when they'd carried their sandwiches into the living room on paper plates and after he'd pulled on his freshly laundered boxer briefs. He'd taken a seat in the middle of her couch and dragged her down onto his lap and now his chin was hooked over her shoulder. He smelled bright and clean like her laundry detergent and the citrus notes of what had to be his cologne and there was something intoxicating about the combination. She couldn't stop huffing in breaths through her nose, breathing him in between bites of the food he'd made for her.

As much as she got a thrill from playing verbal tug-of-war, there was an argument to be made for this tenderness, in laying down her sword and letting Colin hold her. No more keeping score, just the gentle sweep of his hand along her back and his warm, steady breaths whispering against her skin. As right as his lips had felt against hers, as right as his fingers felt sliding up her thigh, this? This was as good, if not better. Like finding a missing puzzle piece buried under a couch cushion. The satisfaction was dizzying, had her clasping his shirt between her fingers like if she let go, he might float away.

She laughed and his arm tightened around her waist. "Thanks, but I know the place is a mess, McCrory."

The living room was cluttered, brightly colored decorative pillows knocked on the floor, a knitted blanket strewn carelessly across the arm of the couch, sticky notes everywhere, half-dead Sharpies littering the coffee table. A few shriveled leaves lay in front of the window from the pothos plant Mom had given her, the poor thing barely clinging to life because Truly had overwatered it. Her bookshelves were in desperate need of reorganizing, her beloved Underwood typewriter desperately needed dusting, and why was she only now noticing her favorite family picture was hanging crooked on the wall?

"No." Colin's lashes fluttered against her throat when he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, his shirt sliding down her arm. A butterfly kiss, some candy-coated corner of her brain noted. "It's... happy."

"Happy?" That wasn't what she expected. Far from it.

He didn't elaborate, just hmmed and kissed her shoulder again, this time a little higher.

"What do you mean?" she pressed.

"I was trying to figure out how you organize your bookshelf," he said, voice quiet, lips brushing her throat with every word. "Because it's not alphabetical by title or author and it's not color coordinated. Honestly, it kind of seems like there isn't any rhyme or reason to it. But that doesn't make a lot of sense."

"No." She smiled. "I guess it doesn't."

"It took a bit for me to work it out," he said, "but the books whose spines are the most cracked are in the middle of the shelf. I think you put the books you've read the most, the ones you love best, front and center. Ease of access is a possibility, but I think you just want to look at the things you love."

She followed his gaze as it swept the room, dare she say lovingly, his eyes lingering on her knitted purple blanket with its lumpy edges and dropped stitches, and on the framed stick figure crayon drawings courtesy of Lulu's daughter. The clutter was still there, her painting still crooked, but in following Colin's gaze it was a little like seeing her living room through fresh eyes.

"It's like how I noticed inside your wallet, in the slot where most people keep their ID, you keep a picture of your parents instead. Because you like looking at it. Because it makes you happy."

"Don't most people like to look at the things that make them happy?" It hardly made her special. "Don't you?"

"Yeah." Colin gripped her chin between his fingers, gently forcing her eyes level with his. "I do."

She couldn't breathe, couldn't blink, was utterly ensnared in Colin's stare. She wasn't sure what it was about this moment that felt more special than any other, but if she could, she'd pause it, this snapshot in time, and she'd frame it, and she'd put it on her shelf, dead center.

"That was incredibly corny," she whispered.

Colin threw his head back and laughed, sharp and loud and bright and it put a funny lump in her throat, made it hard for her to swallow. With anyone else she might've considered the moment broken, but with him it just felt like turning to the next page in a book she'd never read. A book she'd left lingering on her nightstand for weeks, picking it up and putting it back down, her hopes for it so high she feared there was no earthly way the reality of it could live up to her expectations, too afraid she wouldn't like the ending.

She didn't know what would happen next, but for the first time, the thought didn't make her want to close the book and it didn't make her want to flip ahead.