“They should have told their mom,” I mutter, turning away from his intense stare.
“The place looks great. You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he states, falling back into the couch. I pull my legs up Indian-style and shrug.
“It’s the least I can do after you let me stay here for a while.”
“I don’t mind the company.”
We sit in silence, watching the movie. Every now and then, I can feel his stare on my skin. I can’t help but eventually glance at him and our eyes meet briefly, my stomach fluttering with little butterflies. My eyes catch a tattoo that looks like bolts in the shape of an X of some sort, the word ‘PRIDE’ written under it in cursive.
“What?” My eyes shoot to Lip, not realizing I was sitting here gawking at his impressive arms.
“What is that?” I question, running my finger along the ink. He looks down at my finger and smirks.
“It’s a piston.” My brows furrow. What the hell is that?
Registering the confusion on my face, Lip chuckles and explains. “It’s a very important part of an engine. If it ain’t got it, it ain’t running.”
I nod, looking back down at the tattoo when I realize my hand is still resting on his strong arm. I peer under my lashes at him. “And what does pride have to do with that?”
“If a man doesn’t have pride, he ain’t going anywhere,” Lip replies, looking right at my mouth. A lump forms in my throat, and his eyes gleam with a gloss of desire.
I pull my hand away and clear my throat. Lip stretches out, running his hands down his jeans.
“You hungry?” Lip questions. I tear my eyes from the TV screen and nod eagerly, thankful for a distraction.
“Yeah, I could eat.”
“Let me see what we got.” He stands from the couch and my eyes sweep to his tight, jean-clad ass. The man has to work out with a body like that. I look down at my own, feeling incredibly insecure. I should tone up. I groan in frustration, feeling like a little girl sitting next to her crush. My heart is beating wildly, my palms are sweating, and I couldn’t even tell you what the hell we just watched.
“Um, Cherry?” Lip chuckles my name. I turn in my seat, finding him carrying a cup with the purple and white flowers I put on the kitchen island. “Where did you get these?” He smiles, and I can’t help but smile in return.
“Um, I may have plucked a few from your neighbor.” I scrunch my face in confusion. I got them when I took the trash out.
“I thought they looked familiar.” He shakes his head before returning them back to the kitchen. I hop up on my feet and follow him into the kitchen. He turns to face me and rests his hands on the counter behind him.
“She cleans, she decorates. Does she cook, too?” he teases. My lips purse and I look off.
“This place is so manly. It needed a female’s touch.” I cross my arms and look at the stove. “I don’t know how to cook, though,” I admit.
“Really?” He looks shocked. “What do you know how to cook?” I look up at the ceiling, trying to think.
“Um, I can put a pizza in the oven. Oh, those little dinners you put in the oven. Um—”
“Anything not in a box?” He tilts his head to the side and chuckles. I bite my bottom lip, a little embarrassed, and shake my head.
“Well, you’re in luck. I know how to cook everything.” He pushes off the counter and opens the fridge. “My family is Italian, and we take food seriously,” he informs.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping away from the fridge. He draws back with a carton of eggs.
“Do you know how to cook eggs?”
“I mean, I’ve tried, but they always stick to the pan and burn. Or I get the shell in them, or I burn myself,” I ramble. Lip smirks.
“Eggs will be your best friend, rookie, because they’re easy to cook. We’ll start with those. My mom has a secret ingredient with her eggs; it makes them soft,” Lip states, grabbing a pan and placing it on the stove. His arms bulge and flex as he moves things around. He looks so big in a kitchen, his tattooed arms, and scarred knuckles standing out among the light. He looks used and abused, and for some reason I can’t comprehend, I crave to be the one to offer him a touch of softness, of care. The rose to his thorns.
“What is the ingredient?” I ask, poking my head over his shoulder as he digs into the cabinet. He slowly turns his head, his mouth nearly brushing my cheek, and my body instantly goes warm.
“If I told you,” he pauses, his eyes searching my face, “my mother would kill me.” I burst with laughter then step back and try to cover my mouth. He sweeps his hand through his hair and smirks. That sly smile he portrays has me squeezing my thighs together.
“I’m serious! My mom is a tough ole’ bird.” He laughs.
“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
He pulls his hand from the cabinet, holding a can of baking powder.