The Wrong Bond

13

“You could make time for it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Shawn, not everyone is as privileged as you are.”

He groaned. “Please don’t start with that.”

“But it’s true. You think everything can be done so easily, but that isn’t the case for most of us.”

“Well, if you need a break, you can come here anytime to read.”

I picked up a leather-bound book so I could look as nonchalant as possible when I asked him my next question. “What about your other mistresses? I don’t want anyone to pull my hair out if I show up unannounced.”

He chuckled. “Are you trying to ask me something?”

“Well, I did ask a question, didn’t I?” I said, smiling.

He smiled too, and stepped closer to me. So close that I could smell his aftershave and cologne. So close that if I took a quarter-step forward, I would be smack against him. So close that if he leaned in just a little bit, his lips would be on mine.

“It wasn’t direct, though.” His breath fanned across face.

I swallowed as my heart pounded in my chest. I’d always loved how confident and fearless I was, but whenever I was with Shawn Elton, I melted into a puddle. It was annoying that he had this much control over me.

I quickly stepped away and placed the book back on the shelf. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. It’s none of my business.”

He was about to say something when my stomach let out a loud and very embarrassing growl.

“Was that you?” he asked with a laugh.

I frowned, feeling my cheeks heat up. “Who else is in here with you?”

“You’re a bit of a firecracker, aren’t you?”

I smiled. “I just love to have the last word, that’s all.”

“But when was the last time you ate something?” Shawn asked.

I thought for a moment, and realized my last meal had been before my shift. Before I could answer, he nodded knowingly. “It’s been a while. Come on, let’s see what we can whip up.”

He took my hand, which made butterflies do somersaults in my stomach, and led me through the spacious house to the kitchen. The sleek and almost too-clean aesthetic made it look like something straight out of a magazine instead of a place where food was actually made.

He opened the cabinets. “Let’s see if I have something we can make.”

I opened some cabinets, too, but they were very empty.

“You don’t cook?” I asked.

“I can tell you’re judging me,” he chuckled.

“I’m not. I promise.” But I was lying. I was, in fact, judging him, and judging him very hard.

“I actually do cook. A lot, in fact, so get ready to be pleasantly surprised.”

“Okay. So do I sit back and watch, or do you need help not burning down your house?”

He scoffed. “Sit back and watch.”

“Okay.” I sat on the high stool that faced the open kitchen and watched him with interest. There was something mesmerizing in the way he moved; he was so confident and relaxed. He’d never had to try to impress anyone in his entire life, and it was obvious.

“So I found pasta, cheese, peppers, tomato sauce, cilantro.” He made a face, and I chuckled. “Olives, vegetable oil…I think we know what I can make with this.”

“I could eat pasta,” I teased.

“Alright then, that’s settled.”

“Do you really cook often?” I asked again, genuinely curious.

“Not as much as I would like,” he admitted, setting a few items on the counter. “But I enjoy it when I get the chance. It’s a great way to unwind.”

“So is there anything you’re not good at?”

“Nothing.”

I chuckled. “Sure.”

Feeling slightly uncomfortable just watching him, I grabbed a cutting board and a knife and joined him.

“You’re meant to sit back while I cook,” he reminded me.

“Oh, you’re definitely cooking. I’m just going to help you cut the peppers.”

“I’ve never had a sous-chef, but I could get used to this.”

We spent a few minutes prepping the pasta in silence before I said, “So what’s your specialty?”

“Probably pasta,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “It’s simple but satisfying. I was known for my pasta-cooking skills in college, and at one point, I was close to opening a restaurant.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He sighed. “When you’re an Elton, there are only so many frivolities you’re allowed.”

“But that’s a good profession, not a frivolity,” I argued.

I could sense there was more than what he was telling me, but I didn’t want to push him so much that he felt uncomfortable. Instead, I let him change the topic.

“What about you? What are your specialties?”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t say I’m a culinary genius like you, but I do make a mean grilled cheese.”

“I can’t wait to try it,” Shawn said.

We continued in silence for a bit, and then he leaned over me to grab the plate of peppers I’d sliced. The sleeve of his shirt brushed my skin.

Goosebumps ran up my arms, and something hot coiled in my stomach. A part of me wanted to leave his home and never return, and another wanted to see how long I could play with fire without being burned.

He plated the meal and sat down at the kitchen island, our knees brushing under the table. He also poured us both a glass of red wine.

“To new beginnings,” he said, clinking his glass against mine.

“To new beginnings,” I echoed, a bit nervous.

I twirled the fettuccine around my fork and took a bite. The rich burst of flavors and spices in the tomato sauce pleasantly surprised me.

“So?” Shawn asked, awaiting my verdict.

“It’s good,” I admitted.

“Told you!”

“You should cook more. When you have the time, I mean,” I said, trying and failing to stop myself from bringing the past up. “You’re really good at this.”

“It’s not a project I can just start up. I have responsibilities, and they can’t be abandoned.”