As the skillet heats, I pull my phone out and call Trisha to ask her to send some groceries. I might not be able to run out and get Pippa some, but I want her to have options without having to worry about going grocery shopping. Trisha doesn’t ask any questions, even when I give an address for the delivery she knows isn’t my rental.
I’m busy adding some last-minute salt and pepper to the simmering pot of chicken noodle soup when Pippa ambles into the kitchen. The entire right side of her face is red, imprints from the sheets pressed into her skin.
I look up, trying to fight a smile at the way her hair sticks out in every direction. It’s cute as hell. An unwelcome thought creeps into my mind. I think I could get used to being here when Pippa wakes up. I wouldn’t complain about being on the receiving end of many more sleepy smiles from her.
“Good morning,” I tease, looking out her kitchen window. “Or should I say afternoon?”
She stops next to me, peeking inside the pot. “Did you make this?”
I give it one more stir before I place the lid over the pot. My hip rests against the counter as I lazily cross my arms across my chest. “I did.”
“You cook?”
“If I want to.”
“It smells edible.”
I reach out and grab her by the hips, pulling her body against mine before I can think too deeply about it. She smiles at me, the color back in her face after being pale and clammy when I first arrived.
“I can’t believe you made me homemade soup.” She sounds shocked, rising to her tiptoes to loop her arms around my neck.
It feels natural to be in this position with her. It feels like something we’ve been doing for years and not some new foreign thing to the both of us.
“I actually made it for myself,” I joke. “You can fend for yourself.”
Her bottom lip juts out in a pout. “But it smells delicious.”
My head rears back. “Did you just give me a compliment, shortcake?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“But it felt good.”
“You’ll have to earn them.”
“I think I’ll have fun earning more from you.”
Red tinges her cheeks, spreading down the skin of her neck before the flush disappears into the fabric of her hoodie. “You could’ve had a lot more of them if you weren’t a humongous dick to me the first time we met.”
“I’ll just have to make up for lost time.” I fight a smirk, remembering the insults she threw at me the second time we met. “At least now you know I wasn’t an asshole to compensate for my cock,” I add.
Her eyes get wide. She reaches up and holds a hand over her mouth, trying to hide a smile.
“You’ve got me there.”
I cup her face in my hands, fighting every instinct of mine to lean down and kiss her. I know I shouldn’t do it. She’s sick, and I have no idea what the hell is happening between us. But there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t want to claim her mouth with mine. To kiss along her cheeks and down her neck.
Groaning, I let my forehead fall against hers. I take a deep breath to calm myself before I pull away and turn back to the stove. “Let’s get you some food.”
She doesn’t move for a moment, her gaze hot on me.
Did she want me to kiss her? Is her mind reeling from thoughts of all the tempting potential for us, or am I alone in this?
“Let’s see if you can actually cook,” she quips, reaching around me to grab a bowl.
32
PIPPA
Camden Hunter is infuriating.
He has a perfect face. A perfect body. Is rich as hell. One of the most talented people I’ve ever met. And the asshole can cook, too.
His eyes are trained on me as I blow on the spoonful of soup, cooling the hot liquid down before taking a bite. My mom used to make the best soup ever, spending Sundays throwing everything in the fridge into a pot and somehow making it delicious. But damn, this chicken noodle soup almost compares to what she used to make.
It’s delicious, which is annoying as hell.
I can’t even say he’s lacking in personality anymore because the more I get to know him, the more I think the whole asshole thing is a front. Sure, he still has his moments where he can be a dick, but he’s not as bad as I first thought.
And I don’t like that at all. Because now he’s doing things like taking off work to come take care of me and make me soup, and it doesn’t feel like we’re enemies who might have sex anymore. It feels like I might have actual feelings for the art dealer next door, and I have no idea if it will hurt me in the end.
I try to push any negative thoughts out of my mind. One day, I might come to regret letting Camden into my life little by little, but right now, I want to soak it in. I want to feel special, like maybe him taking care of me is out of character for him and that he may be feeling the attraction between us, too. For me, it isn’t just the sexual tension. There are feelings, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating to wonder what might happen.
“So are you just going to leave me hanging, or are you going to confess that my soup blew you away?”
I slurp the liquid from the soup with a casual shrug. “It’s okay.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “You’re lying.”
I like the casual way he sits in his chair, his long legs slightly parted. He holds himself so confidently, even while sitting in my tiny kitchen, watching me eat soup. He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, showing off his perfect forearms. The muscles along the top ripple with his movements, beckoning me to reach out and touch them.
“You’re watching me awfully close, shortcake.” His voice is low and taunting.
I meet his blue eyes, trying to play it cool like I wasn’t just imagining gripping his strong biceps as he railed into me.
What kind of medicine did he give me?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie. He and I both know I just got caught ogling him, but it’s fine. I’ll distract him by telling him he makes mediocre soup when in reality, I think it’s the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever had.
“Mhm,” he hums, sitting back in his chair. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he brings his fingers to his mouth and runs his thumb along his bottom lip.
The asshole is bringing attention to those perfectly chiseled forearms. He’s trying to tempt me, tease me, and if I didn’t feel foggy from the sleep—or the medicine—I might just crawl across this table so he could finally fuck me.
“Careful with the speed at which you inhale the soup.” He nods toward my bowl of soup, which is already halfway gone. “You might have me believing you’re actually enjoying it.”
“It’s because I’m starving, and I have no other options.”
“You have a pantry and fridge full of food. If my soup is so terrible, I can find you something else.”
My spine straightens, the spoon clanging into the bowl as I look at him in confusion. “Did you buy me groceries?”
His lips pick up in a cocky smirk. “I did. Would you like me to make you something different?”
I don’t answer him at first. All I can do is stare, trying to figure him out. He’s constantly shocking me. His thoughtfulness takes me by surprise. He didn’t have to bring me herbal tea and food this morning. He didn’t have to hold me while I slept. And he certainly didn’t have to make me soup and buy me groceries.
He’s so different today than all the other days I’ve known him. It can’t only be because we hooked up.
“Shortcake?”
“Hm?”
He aims a knowing smirk my way. His eyebrows rise as his thumb still teases me by tracing his bottom lip. “Would you like me to make you something different?”
“The soup is fine.” I take another bite. It warms every part of me, comforting me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
It reminds me of being with my mom, of the days I stayed home sick from school and she took care of me and made me soup. We’d watch game shows on TV, and she’d hold me while I napped. He probably doesn’t realize he’s done it, but he’s given me a little piece of my mom back. A little reminder of her. And it means the world to me.
“Thank you,” I begin, suddenly feeling overcome with emotion. “For making this. For all of it.”