Page 29 of Stolen Summer
“Cole?” I called, realizing I had no idea where he was. The house was too damn big for me to go on a scavenger hunt to find him.
“In here.” I heard his voice come from the back of the house.
After wandering the first floor searching for him, I discovered here turned out to be the kitchen. Cole stood behind the island with a knife, cutting herbs. A pot of water sat on the stove, waiting to boil. He had chicken set out and a bowl of seasoned breadcrumbs. “Did you get lost?” he asked without glancing at me. His focus remained on preparing the food.
I couldn’t tell if he still simmered in annoyance, but it didn’t seem to matter. He’d moved on. I could too. “What are you doing?” I answered his question with one of my own.
“Sit,” he ordered. “I’m making dinner. You’re keeping me company. Besides, I need to keep my eye on you.”
I should take offense to his comment, but I didn’t have it in me to argue with Cole any more today. “You cook?”
“On occasion. And out of necessity,” he replied, adding the herbs to the breadcrumbs.
Moving to a stool on the other side of the island where he worked, I sat down. “When is it ever necessary for you? I bet you have someone who cooks your meals.”
He scowled, mixing the breading in a bowl. “So stereotypical of you.”
I watched him move around the kitchen as I did an absolutely shit job of convincing myself it wasn’t sexy seeing him cook. “Are you denying it?”
“Rita is a fabulous cook I’ll have you know. Where do you think I got my skills?”
Did I detect a hint of humor under his intensity?
Folding my hands on the counter, my eyes tracked his movements. “I’m impressed you know her name.”
His perpetual frown deepened. “I think you have the wrong impression of me.”
“You’re not an easy man to figure out,” I admitted.
“Good, then I’m doing it right. I don’t want you to figure me out, Killer.”
“What are you making? Or am I unable to ask?”
“I hope you like Italian.”
I rested my chin on my hand, suppressing a sigh at the mention of something homemade. “I like food.”
He chuckled. “Good.”
“Can I help?” I offered despite my lack of skills in the kitchen. “I feel like I should be doing something.”
“Don’t get out of that chair.” He started prepping the chicken, dipping it into a mixture and then the crumbs. “Just relax for once.” His gaze flicked up before returning to his task. “Which judging by the expression on your face isn’t something that comes easy to you. When was the last time someone took care of you?”
I blinked, a speck of annoyance flaring in my chest. He saw too much, and I didn’t like it. Feeling exposed made me uncomfortable. I had to fight not to fidget with my hair or shift in my seat, both things I wanted to do. “I don’t need someone to take care of me.”
He lifted the fork in his hand and pointed it at me, sending crumbs flying. “Doesn’t surprise me, but if you were mine, I’d show you what you’re missing.”
My experience with guys made me unenthusiastic about having a relationship. Either my bar was too high or the ones who were interested in me didn’t know squat about romancing a girl. Maybe romance was dead. Or maybe I’d read too many books and watched too many movies. “What would your last girlfriend say?” I inquired, curious what Cole was like as a boyfriend.
I tried to picture him with a girl and couldn’t.
He scooped a handful of pasta, dumping it into the boiling pot of water. “Nothing. I don’t date. To my mother’s great disappointment.”
“You just use them instead. Treat them like a trick of cards.” I had a bias against the rich summer jerks that stemmed from a bad experience at fourteen. It stuck with me, and I vowed never to let myself fall into the trap again.
His eyes flashed to mine. “Our bet isn’t a game.”
“Isn’t it?” I tossed back, not wanting to argue again but unable to stop my mouth or the snarky tone that came out. What was it about Cole that got under my skin so easily?