So, I’d decided to cook dinner for him.
Also, I didn’t do idle well. And that was all I’d done all day.
Surprisingly enough, I’d found all the ingredients I’d needed to cook the meal from his cabinets and fridge. It made me wonder if he cooked himself. If he did, when had he learned? How? Maybe his mother taught him before she’d died, or maybe he’d learned as a necessity for survival, since he obviously lived alone.
Or did he simply enjoy it?
I had no idea, but I had so many unanswered questions about him that I could fill a novel with them. Questions I’d more than likely never get the answers to. Yesterday, we’d barely spent more than a minute talking after we’d gotten home from the game, but I’d briefly mentioned I liked drinking tea when I was stressed-out. He’d left while I’d been changing into dry clothes and came back with three different boxes for me twenty minutes later. I’d thanked him, and he’d gruffly reminded me that he didn’t need any “fucking thanks.”
Then he’d gone downstairs to work on cars again.
And that had been that.
The ringing stopped, and the phone on the other end got shuffled before clanging against something hard. Somewhere on the other end of the line, someone cried out and cursed in a Boston accent. And he sounded as if he was in pain.
Lots of it.
“Son of a bitch, shut your mouth, Ian,” Lucas growled.
I licked my lips. “Uh, hello?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” More shuffling, and the phone got picked up. “Who is this, and why the hell are you calling me?”
“It’s me,” I said, before mentally face-palming. I hadn’t given him my number, so he probably didn’t know who I was. I had his only because he’d scribbled it down on a piece of paper before he’d left yesterday morning, along with instructions that if I left the apartment, he’d drag me back by my hair. “Um . . . Heidi.”
“Oh.” His voice softened slightly. “What’s up, darlin’? Is something wrong?”
“No. I just—” Someone cried out in the background again, and I gripped the phone tighter. “What was that? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said impatiently. Something clicked behind him, and the screaming silenced. “Just doing something at work. What do you need?”
“Are you torturing someone?”
“I’m a car parts salesperson.” He paused. “Why the hell would I be torturing someone, darlin’?”
I closed my eyes. “Lucas . . .”
“Do you really wanna know?”
I thought about it. “No.”
“That’s what I thought.” He sighed. “Why are you calling?”
I shook off the millions of questions I had. “I wanted to know when you’ll be coming home tonight. I cooked dinner, and I didn’t want to have it ready too early . . . if you were planning to come home at a reasonable time, that is. And if you wanted to, you know, eat with me.”
“Dinner?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement. “Are you going all domestic on me?”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I frowned. “And if I am? What of it?”
He chuckled. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll be home around six, so if you’d like to hold dinner for me, I’ll be there.”
So he wouldn’t be avoiding me again. “Okay.” I paced across the living room floor. “Also, can you bring home a few things, if I text them to you?”
Sighing, he muttered something under his breath. “This is what being married feels like, isn’t it? No sex and all orders.”
Oh, we might not have had sex, but we’d had that one incredible moment in the kitchen together the other night, followed by those kisses at the stadium yesterday. The ones that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about. “I wouldn’t know, seeing as I’ve never been married.”
He laughed. “Well, you had parents at some point, right?”
“No. I mean, I lived in foster homes, and then later on in life . . . on the streets, as I already mentioned yesterday.” I bit down on my lower lip, wishing I could take that back. Why had I told him that? He didn’t need to know my life history. This wasn’t a real relationship. Ugh.
His voice softened even more. “Heidi . . .”
“Don’t.” I walked over to my computer and stared down at my shopping list. If he went all pity-boy on me again, I’d put an entire container of salt on his half of dinner. “Will you do it, or would you rather I run out and—?”
“Hell no.” Annnd there went the softness. Good. I didn’t want or need it. It made him way too . . . approachable. “Don’t even think about leaving that apartment.” A door opened behind him, and I heard a muffled voice. He let out a long breath. “Yeah, I’ll be right in.” Then, to me, he said, “Send me the list. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” I said, staring at the photo on his fridge. It was of a man who had red-tinged brown hair and green eyes who looked like Lucas but definitely wasn’t actually him. I’d place him around my age, maybe twenty-five or so. It was the only personal photo he had in his whole apartment. “See you later.”