Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(63)

I take the bus to the apartment. I hope Easton doesn’t mind sharing. When I arrive, the second-floor lights are on. A warm sensation starts to thaw the cold that set in on the ride over. I run up the stairs, noting that the light above the door has been replaced and that the handle is more securely attached. The stairs are still rickety, but I'm beginning to love this shabby home.

I knock lightly but don't wait for an answer before walking in. Easton's at the stove, naked from the waist up. His black knit joggers with the white stripe down the side barely cling to his hips. I lean against the door and allow myself to ogle him for a good thirty seconds. I deserve it, I think. After entertaining about ten different naughty thoughts, I roll my tongue back into my mouth and check the corners of my lips for drool before greeting him.

"What's for dinner?"

"Spaghetti," he says without turning around. "It's the only thing I know how to make. Ella taught me. Want to set the table? There should be a bag full of plates and shit.”

I peel my gaze away from his shoulders and land on a small wooden kitchenette set. “Since when do we have a table?”

“Since today. I did some shopping.”

That’s an understatement. The once empty apartment is now stuffed full. Besides the table and two chairs, there’s a new beautiful gray sofa, a white-and-gray-and-black rug, and a mattress set upright against the wall. A number of bags with a familiar red bull’s-eye sit on one end of the sofa. I sort through them until I find plates, glasses, and even a box of silverware. There’s also a colander, which he’s going to need for the noodles.

"Hope those are okay."

Is that nervousness in his voice?

"They're great." I collect two of everything and bring them over to the sink for a quick rinse. There’s not much room in the kitchen, so I have to squeeze in next to Easton to get to the sink. He shifts over, but our elbows rub together as we work.

It’s so nice after the horror that happened at my house. I don’t think I ever want to leave this place.

"I bought them at Target," he tells me as he dumps a bottle of red sauce into a pan with browned beef. My stomach rumbles in appreciation. "That place is the bomb,” he continues adorably. “It has everything. I got this table there and the chairs, plus all this kitchen shit. I also picked up the mattress, but I can’t figure out how to put the bed together. They had towels and shampoo and everything. Like, that's the only store we need."

I love how he uses the word we. I don’t feel so alone anymore. I set the strainer in the middle of the sink and take the dishes over to the table.

“Incoming,” he says. I turn around to see him carrying a big pot over to the table. “Can you grab the bread? It’s in the oven.”

I grab a towel—also new—and pull the tinfoil-wrapped garlic bread out of the oven. "How did you know I was coming?"

"Mmm, maybe not knew, but hoped?" He sits after I do, a gentlemanly act I hadn't realized I liked until he did it for me.

If I was told I’d be hungry twenty minutes ago, I’d have called that person a liar, but the smell of the sauce and the buttery bread along with the sweet treatment from Easton makes me ravenous. I scoop about ten servings of noodles and sauce onto my plate and dig in.

"What do you think of my cooking?"

I hold my thumb up. "It's awesome."

He winks at me before attacking his plate. We eat in silence, too busy stuffing our faces to speak. The giant pot of noodles and sauce is almost gone before I call a halt.

I push back from the table and stagger to the sink with my plate in my hands. "I feel like I ate a whole factory of pasta."

"It was good, wasn't it?" He sets his own plate down next to mine. A big smile is stretched across his gorgeous face. He's so pleased with his accomplishment that I want to pinch his cheeks.

But if I touch him, I won't want to stop.

"The best," I agree. "Go sit down while I clean the dishes."

"I can help," he protests.

"Nope. You did the cooking, so I clean. It's the rules."

"What rules are those?"

"Our house rules." I shoo him out of the tiny kitchen area.

He saunters over to the mattress frame and pulls out a baby-pink plastic container. "Do you know what these are?"

"No clue. A hairdryer?"

"This is real man stuff." He flips open the case and displays a set of screwdrivers.

"How do you figure?"

"Because real men put shit together, Hart. How do you not know this?" He unpacks the tools and lays them beside the metal frame.

"Apparently because I have a vagina."

“No. I think it’s because you haven’t had enough contact with real men.” He pauses to flex for me.

I pretend not to be impressed by the obvious muscle definition. “If you say so.”

“It’s probably because you went to that all-girls’ school for so long. Not that I’m complaining. The fewer guys you hang around with, the better for me.” He flips the screwdriver in his hand and grins.

I pause, water dripping from my hands. “Did I ever say the name of the school?”

“No. I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because I think I need my medical records.”