I have to admit he’s probably right, because I’m falling right into my regular pattern of overthinking whatever it was that went on between us. When I don’t answer him, he goes on.
“I just wanted to tell you that I’m fine with whatever you want. I enjoyed myself going out with you. I liked kissing you. I just want you to do whatever you want, and I’ll be okay with that. Want to just be friends? Fine with me. Want to kiss some more? Sure. Let’s not put any pressure on it. We decide how awkward this has to be.”
Well, when you put it like that.
The corner of my mouth pulls up and I see his mouth mimicking mine. It warms me that he’s taking the time to come over earlier to make me more comfortable.
“You really are a sweet guy,” I conclude out loud, more at ease in this whole situation. I grab some of the leftover ingredients and start putting them away. Having something to do with my hands makes me more comfortable, making it look like I’m busy and I know what I’m doing.
“We’re not having this conversation again,” he answers.
“Keep denying it, I see you,” I say while looking him in the eye with one of my eyes squinted as I take some dishes to the sink.
He steps forward and closes in on me. He puts his hands around me on the counter and holds his face close to my ear.
“You sure ‘bout that?”
His words give me goosebumps. While his body doesn’t touch me, he’s so close that the heat his body radiates meets mine. I want to lean into him and pick back up where we left off last Friday. Even if I’m certain I’m not looking for love at the moment, every fibre of my being is attracted to this brown-haired demi-god that is standing here behind me.
Before I can answer him, the back door opens again, and the other boys walk in. We get looks as to what is going on, and my cheeks are starting to burn. Jonah notices my discomfort, and steps to stand beside me and suddenly it’s like nothing was going on here. I’m just going to play along with his game for now. This whole flirting thing is going to be my next Google-search. For science purposes, of course.
I manage to get everyone drinks and make them sit. It’s weird seeing these four men in my parents’ living room. They’re huge, and they make the room seem tiny. I’m aware that my mother invites Jonah and O over every now and then, but I just can’t match the manly men with my mother's couch with flower print and crocheted purple blanket. They seem very out of place even though they act like it’s exactly where they should be. It’s a bit of a mind-fuck.
While the boys are talking amongst themselves, I’m pushing stuff from the table setting around in the dining room, trying to figure out where everything should go as the timer in the kitchen starts beeping. I jump up and walk over to the kitchen to open up the oven. I expect to smell something wonderful, but instead it smells foul. When I open the oven door there’s some smoke and the smoke detector starts beeping, which makes me conclude it’s not supposed to be that smokey. The beeping of the smoke detector is annoying, and I see the device hanging on the wall above the stove. It’s too high for me to grab, but I really need that sound to stop right now.
Dean walks into the kitchen and he takes in the situation with watchful eyes. Without hesitating, he reaches for the smoke detector and pulls it from the wall, while simultaneously kicking the oven shut with his foot. I’m just standing there, looking at him in awe with big eyes. Who says heroes don’t exist? He pulls the battery from the smoke device and the beeping of hell stops. I can hear my own thoughts again when silence fills the room.
“Did you mean to murder dinner?” he asks while bending over to look through the oven window. “I thought you liked us.”
“Ha-ha. No, I didn’t mean to murder dinner. And I did like you, right up until that comment. I don’t know what I did wrong, I’m just a shit chef.”
“Smells like you literally cooked shit. What the hell was that supposed to be?”
“Tuna casserole...”
“Let me repeat the question: I thought you liked us?”
“It’s my mothers’ recipe.”
“Well, that makes it all right then I guess? Everyone knows grandma’s recipes are the best and mothers’ recipes suck, anyway.”
He steps away from the oven and starts to randomly open my fridge and kitchen cabinets, and I wonder what the hell he expects to find there. He opens the cabinet with all my sweets and processed foods and closes it again as fast as he can.
“To be really honest, this is mainly my fault and has nothing to do with the owner of the recipe.”
“Give yourself some credit Morgan. If your mom recommended that you make tuna casserole when you’re having guests over, she’s the only one to blame.”
I chuckle as I open another cabinet which holds some basic household stock. Dean sees what’s happening and grabs a bag of spaghetti while he’s leaning over me.
“Do you have some sort of pepper somewhere?” he asks.
“There should be some chilies in the pantry. Let me go check. What are you thinking?” I go to the pantry and actually find two chilies. That should be enough, right? I never know how to measure chilies. I either put in too much or so little you can’t taste it at all.
“Spaghetti aglio e olio. You can never go wrong with that.”
“That sounds like a challenge,” I say while eyeing the ingredients apprehensively. He sees me looking and gestures for me to come closer. Picking up one of the big knives from my mother's knife block, he puts the chilies on a cutting board. He then makes me stand in front of the cutting board while he takes place behind me and makes me grab the knife. His hand is holding my hand, as he forces me to make the right cutting moves. I’m a little distracted by the feel of his body against my back. Never knew that the incentive I needed to start cooking would be a handsome man to hold my hand.
“So, here’s what we’re going to do,” he says as he starts explaining all the steps to make the dish. I’m taking in every word he says with severe interest. He’s making cooking sound sexy. It’s the first time I don’t hate standing in the kitchen fixing dinner while at the same time not focusing on the food I’m making at all.