“I don’t have any friends. Not really.” Sadie drapes her arm over me almost lovingly and fuck, it feels good. Her fingers trace the bands of muscle in my left arm. Her touch is so smooth and calculated and sure. Questions about sculpting spring to mind but I shut them down, knowing that I shouldn’t push her. Not now.
“My dad sends security down here from Atlanta to check on me. It drives me nuts. I haven’t spoken to him in a long time. I’ll have to see him at the fundraiser. You never agreed to go.” I brush a lock of hair away from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear. I do it maybe because I love the way her hair feels slipping through my fingers or maybe because I need a small pause to gather some courage. “Will you?”
She gives a subtle nod and I tug her even closer to me. Her face tucks perfectly into my neck. I feel her lips turn up into a smile and it feels so good to know I can make her smile.
I talk. She gives. I drink her in and then talk some more, getting to know her without her ever having to speak a single word. Her eyes, her movements, her touch are all her tell—her story—and I am rapt, wondering what her ending is. Some newly discovered part of me hopes that I’m the main character in Sadie’s ending. Not her happily ever after, because she’s already had one of those, but maybe I can be her second chance at happiness. I think she could be mine. I’d bet on it.
“C’mon, Slim. Let’s eat something.” I reach forward and pop her perfect ass with the palm of my hand. She squeals and jumps up, still stark naked. The sight of her has my cock feeling warm and tingly again. Fuck, she’s irresistible.
Chapter Sixteen
Lonely Chef
Sadie
Zander sets a plate of wheat crackers, cheese, and fruit in front of me while he moves around his kitchen like a professional chef. I study his form as he reaches up to the pot rack above the kitchen island and pulls down a large pan. He flicks his wrist and the handle rotates 360 degrees in his palm. He sets it to a gas burner on his stove with a clang.
“Who taught you to cook?”
His attention snaps to me as the burner flickers to life. Without looking, he zigzags what I guess is olive oil into the pan. “TV mostly.” He shrugs. “Some books. I had to learn how to cook for myself since cheeseburgers and nearly all takeout was out of the question after my transplant. No one else was going to cook for me.”
I nod, feeling a little pang of sadness at the idea of Zander being so alone in this big house and having to teach himself how to cook and abide by a heart healthy diet. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t had anyone to learn those things with. It must’ve been impossibly hard to make those sacrifices and lifestyle changes without the support of another person. My chest fills to the brim knowing that he has taken great measures to take care of himself and the heart that used to be Jake’s.
“What are you making for us?”
“This afternoon’s special, madam, will be cashew-crusted sea scallops, grilled asparagus, and lemon-sage linguine,” he fires off, wearing an animated expression like a waiter at some fancy eatery.
I toss my head back and laugh heartily at him. “What, no enchilada casserole?” I joke, and it wins me another boy-next-door grin. I could look at that playful grin all day, every day, for…ever.
“Fraid not, baby. No enchilada casseroles here.” He shakes his head, turning back to the pan on the stove. He lifts it from the burner and swirls the pan around, coating it with oil.
“My mom cooks for me. My freezer is full of little single-serving meals that only require three minutes in the microwave. She’s a good cook. Makes typical southern food. I like almost everything she makes. But I don’t eat the frozen meals. Want to know why?” I ask, feeling a little nervous but compelled to share a little of my life with him since he’s shared with me.
“Why’s that, sweetheart?” he drawls, reminding me how much I love a man with that southern Georgia accent.
“Because they’re these little single person dishes. I look at them and I just…I feel more alone. So I don’t eat them. I make myself a sandwich or eat cereal or order Chinese because they always send way too much and I can eat more of it the next day.”
Zander gives a tight little nod, his jaw tense, then he turns back to making dinner. I look on with fascination as he prepares our meal with ease. The asparagus is drizzled with something then tossed haphazardly into a waiting grill pan. He shakes it around twice, making the vegetables tumble around in every direction.
“I have a nephew. His name is Jackson. He’s my sister’s only child as of now.”
“Are you going to have kids one day?” he asks as he reaches to a plastic dish on the counter and transfers a fistful of scallops to another dish with crushed cashews in it, I presume. Another flick of his wrist and the scallops are coated.