I try not to smile, but my mouth betrays me. “I’m going to finish up lunch. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m never not hungry, Romilly. It’s time you knew.” He rises from the couch.
I roll my eyes, walking back to the kitchen.
Bash follows me and glances at the bread waiting on the counter. “How did you learn to bake?”
“My mom taught me. I’ve been helping her cook family dinners once a week since I was a kid, but it’s been a while. My parents are on a cruise right now.”
Bash steps aside as I move around the kitchen to gather all the ingredients. When it’s time to slice the bread, I hand him a knife. “Go ahead.”
He smirks, twirling the knife in his fingers. “What? Do you see a dragon that needs slaying?”
“Just cut the bread, Bash.”
“Fine.” He places the knife in the center of the loaf, and I reposition his hands at the end. He lets me guide them to the correct place. This close, I can feel his soft breath on my arm. The fine hair along his fingers tickles my palms, and everywhere his skin touches me makes me feel like I’m burning up.
I let go of his hands and clear my throat. “Okay, go ahead and slice.”
I watch him slowly create three uneven slices of bread and nudge him with my elbow. “On second thought, maybe I should do it.”
He scoffs, though the bread slices are clearly a crumbling mess. “No way, I’ve got this. I’m practically an expert now.”
I shake my head but don’t press. Instead, I set the table with our plates and fill the misshapen sandwiches with meats, cheese, and veggies. I also pour us each a bowl of the leftover minestrone soup I made yesterday.
When the table is ready, our steaming bowls and sandwich plates waiting, we sit across from each other at my small wooden table. There’s really only enough space for three people to sit comfortably, but when Zara, my parents, and my brother, Aiden, occasionally visit, the five of us somehow manage to squeeze in together. And bumping knees with my family is fine.
Bumping knees with Bash on the other hand…notfine.
“Oops, sorry,” he says, bringing his feet in so they’re not touching mine.
“It’s not your fault.” I sigh and wrinkle my nose at the piece of furniture. “It’s this tiny table. But I don’t really have company often, so it wouldn’t be smart to splurge on a bigger one.”
Bash studies me.
“What?” I try not to fidget under his gaze.
“Have you always been so responsible?”
“I—I don’t know. I just don’t want to have any regrets, I guess.”
“And buying a new table would be something you’d regret?” He gestures to the small, round tabletop. Neither of us has taken a bite yet, and hungry as I am, the way Bash looks at me has my nerves jangling in a way that affects my appetite.
“Yes. Because I’m trying to be smart with money so I don’t end up back home with my parents again. I finally just got back on my feet.”
“I can’t even imagine you moving back home.” He lifts his sandwich and takes a bite. A groan rumbles in his throat. “Romilly, this is . . . amazing.”
The compliment warms me. “Thanks. Why can’t you imagine me moving back home?”
“Because you’re good at everything.” He says it so simply, like it’s a fact instead of an opinion.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You succeed at everything you do. It’s fascinating to witness.”
I scoff. “My last dog grooming business with my sister, Zara, completely failed. We made the mistake of buying the building instead of renting, and the place fell apart. It was too expensive for us to fix, so we both had to move back home.”
“But look at you now,” he says. “Successful new pet spa full of bloodthirsty beasts who adore you. Helping the needy. Good with kids. Voice like an angel.”
