“You know I did.” I sigh when his jaw starts to tic.
“Is your cell private?”
“What do you mean?”
“Could someone use your cell phone number to find your address?” he asks, and I stop what I’m doing to focus on him.
“My number is attached to my family’s cell phone plan. My sisters and I never got off our parents’ account, since we could never get the deal they have. Instead, we send our mom the money each month for whatever we owe.” I chew the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know for sure that my information is private, but knowing my dad, it probably is. He’s way overprotective and paranoid when it comes to his family,” I tell him and vow to ask my dad tomorrow if our numbers on his account are private. I’m sure they are, but the idea of Mike—or whoever he is—tracking down my parents’ address does not sit well with me.
“I want you to tell me if he messages you again.”
“Okay,” I agree easily, and he walks around the counter and comes to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Now tell me what you’re making?”
“It’s just a cream sauce to eat with the salmon and rice.” I tilt my head to the side as he lowers his mouth to my exposed neck and shiver when the scruff of his jaw rubs against my sensitive skin.
“It has wasabi in it?” He reaches around me to pick up the bright green tube from the counter.
“Yes, wasabi, lime juice, and lime zest, along with pink salt.” I finish blending the mixture, then dip my finger into the sauce and hold it up for him to taste. “What do you think?” I ask when he releases my finger.
“It’s good.” He turns me to face him and cages me in between him and the counter. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“My parents.” I grip his sides as he brushes his nose across mine. “D-Do you know how to cook?”
“No, growing up, we had someone who cooked for our family, and when I moved out on my own, I was always on the go, so I would pick something up.”
“You had a chef growing up?”
“We did. Actually, Ken still works for my parents to this day.”
“Did you have a butler too?” I tease, and he grins.
“No, but we had a live-in housekeeper.”
“So your family is really wealthy.”
“They are, but so is yours.”
“Maybe, but we didn’t have a chef or a housekeeper, unless you count me and my sisters, because once we were old enough, we were required to help cook dinner during the week. And every Saturday, our mom made us help her clean the house from top to bottom before we could do anything we actually wanted to do.”
“Would you have wanted a housekeeper and a chef?” he asks, and I think back to when I was growing up. Even if it was sometimes annoying, having responsibilities at home, I know I wouldn’t change it.
“No, hanging around the stove with my mom or my dad was when we used to have some of the best talks, and I have a lot of happy memories from those times. The cleaning, I could have done without, but it still always felt good when it was done, the same way it does now.”
“I can see that,” he says quietly with his expression soft. “So tell me what I can do to help you with dinner.”
“Get us drinks.”
“I can do that.” He drops a quick kiss to my lips and steps back. “What are you having?”
“A cherry seltzer, and I got some beer and soda today.” I watch him go to the fridge. “I wasn’t sure what you like to drink.”
“I’m not picky.” He grabs a can of my seltzer along with one of the bottles of beer I picked up while I was at the store. “Do you want yours in a glass?”
“Yes, please.” I open the cabinet where I keep my glassware and hand him one, then go to the oven and pull out the salmon that is now golden-brown on top with a nice crust. While he pours my drink, I make each of us a plate, then place them both on the island, getting out silverware for the two of us, and carry it around to our stools. “Sorry we have to eat here,” I tell him as I take a seat. “But until I either break down and buy the table I want or figure out how to make it, this is all I have.” I drag the wasabi cream sauce across the counter between our plates, since I know I will want extra, and look at him when he doesn’t respond, finding him watching me with a look I can’t decipher. “What?”
“Until you cooked for me last night, it had been years since I had a home-cooked meal.” He takes a seat next to me and passes me my drink. “I’d appreciate this meal even if we were eating it on the side of the road.”
“Who cooked for you?” I ask, having a feeling that the meal wasn’t prepared by his family’s chef.
“Noah’s mom. It was right after I was chosen to play in London, and she made meatloaf with mashed potatoes and corn, which was always my favorite.”
“Noah. That’s your friend who’s a police officer, right?”