“You made the island, too?”
I shrug. “It’s pretty easy when you’re already building a cabin. What’s one more project?”
“I guess so.” Lily pulls out one of the tall stools and sits down. “How long did it take you to do all of this?”
“A couple of months. Since I came back.” I turn to slide the flatbread into the oven because it needs to go in, but also because I’m not sure what I want to tell her. Or how much of my fucked up life and my fucked up family she’ll be able to handle before she high-tails it right the hell out of here. I'm enjoying having her here; I'd rather not have her go running just yet.
“You did all of this in a few months? That’s incredible. I mean, I don’t know how long it takes to build a cabin, so maybe that’s just par for the course. But it seems pretty awesome.”
I take the pre-prepped ingredients for the two side dishes – jasmine rice with lemon and sautéed vegetables with a butter something-or-other sauce – from the refrigerator, followed by everything I’ve prepped for the main dish – rainbow trout with an orange saffron sauce. I set it all out on the counter. Luke gave me specific instructions for which order to make all of this stuff in, and I’m trying to be sly about not relying on the notes I scratched on a piece of paper that’s folded in my back pocket. I’m trying to impress her with my culinary skills.
I’m trying to impress her with a lot of things.
“Nah, it’s pretty awesome,” I joke. I pause for a minute, surveying the ingredients, but really gathering up the courage to actually talk about myself. I don’t talk about myself. The last time I talked to anyone about anything significant was telling Silas why I left West Bend when I did. “I worked the rigs out in Texas. I’m an oil rigger. That’s what I do. Or did, anyway.”
Why is it so hard to say that? I’ve never cared one whit about what anyone thought about me, but I’m suddenly holding my breath, expecting her to wrinkle her nose and call me a white trash hillbilly or something.
Instead, she takes a sip from her glass. “Cool.”
32
Lily
I think he’s nervous. Hell, I’m nervous. I need something to do with my hands, so I keep taking the tiniest of sips of the scotch, nursing the drink so it lasts forever. I don’t know why this “date” seems like such a big deal. Killian worked at the bakery. He’s been to my house. Shit, he even hung out with Chloe. And we fucked.
God, did we ever fuck. In my bed. Killian Saint was in my bed. He was inside me. Yet now we’re both fumbling around awkwardly as he cooks dinner.
He’s just as nervous to talk about himself as I am to talk about me.
I wonder if he's hiding a dirty secret as big as mine.
"What?" Killian turns around, his back to the stove where he has two pans of something cooking. He hasn't given me any clue about what he's making. He's just puttering around the kitchen like he does this all the time.
I'll admit, having a man cook for me is pretty much the best thing any man's done for me in a long time.
Other than the sex.
The toe-curling sex.
Oh yeah. Killian just asked me a question.
"Huh?" I ask.
Killian chuckles. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were sitting there staring at my ass."
"I told you. There's something about a man in an apron that I find irresistible," I lie. Yep, I totally wasn't just thinking about how damn nervous I am.
"Remind me never to take this off," he says, turning back to the stove and stirring something in the pan. He's silent for a minute, the sounds of vegetables crackling over butter in a saucepan and the music on the stereo being the only sounds in the cabin.
I wonder how Chloe is doing. I should text Opal.
I pick up my phone, then set it back down on the counter, because Opal will lecture me about how I should be enjoying myself with Killian, and there's nothing worse than a text-lecture.
As if it read my mind, my phone beeps loudly and I turn it over.
"Is it about Chloe?" Killian asks over his shoulder.
I read the text message and set the phone back down on the island. "It's my mother," I say with a sigh.
"Is everything okay?"
I laugh. "Chloe ratted me out."
"About us?" Killian slides a piece of toasted flatbread in front of me. "Voila."
"Yes.” He says us like it’s official. Is there an us? Do I want there to be an us? “That was my mother texting me because I’ve been avoiding talking to her.”
“About me?” Killian says, his eyebrow arched.
“She’s used to me being single.” Nervousness rises in my chest, and I search for a way to change the subject. I take a bite of the flatbread and close my eyes, savoring it because it’s that good. “Oh my God, you can cook.”
“It’s good?” Killian asks. When I open my eyes, he’s watching me expectantly.
“It’s… orgasmic.”
Killian laughs. “Well, I was hoping to make you come during dinner.”