More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(45)

“It’s . . .” She gasped for breath, then broke down into gales of laughter again when she glanced up into his expectant face. She folded her arms on the countertop and dropped her head for a moment as she tried to bring her giggles under control. Once the laughter abated, she lifted her gaze to his smiling eyes—he didn’t really look offended at all, just gently amused. “I’m sorry. It’s not your singing . . . okay, it kind of is. But I think I found it funnier that you were asking for the song’s title when you k-kept . . .” She inhaled deeply when it felt like the laughter was threatening again. “Kept singing it in that godawful voice.”

“What do you mean?”

“The song’s called ‘No One,’ Harris. By Alicia Keys.”

“Oh.” He twisted his face into a sheepish grimace before chuckling, the sound deep and masculine. “That makes sense. I like that song.”

She did too. In fact . . .

“We danced to that song. On my twentieth birthday,” he said, his voice quietly reminiscent. She nodded, surprised that he remembered the song, considering the state he had been in that night.

“I know.” Danced. And then kissed. Her very first kiss. The song had come to mean so much more to her, but she determinedly tamped down those particular memories.

Amusement fled, and they exchanged an uncomfortable look before both averted their eyes. Silence descended, their troubled history once again asserting itself between them. Tina nervously drummed her fingers on the Formica countertop.

“Tina.” His voice sounded anguished. “If I could do it all over again . . .”

She stopped tapping and lifted her hand to prevent him from saying anything further.

“Let’s not go into this again, Harris.” She watched him screw his eyes shut as he battled with what looked like some pretty powerful emotions.

“Fuck.” The word was soft and fierce and sounded like a prayer.

“Why don’t we . . .” She paused as she considered the words she was about to utter. No matter which way she phrased them, they would seem like an olive branch. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to extend one yet. Or ever. Still, she was in his—temporary—home, about to break bread with him, so to speak, and maybe, for her emotional health, it would be best. “Why don’t we set this aside? For today at least.”

She watched his throat move as he swallowed and then shifted her gaze to his navy-blue eyes, which were alight with gratitude.

“I’d like that,” he said gruffly, offering her the tiniest of smiles.

Tina heaved a relieved sigh, feeling lighter than she had in months. Possibly years.

“Good. Now, how about you get those steaks on? I’m starving.”





Chapter Seven

“Oh my God, that was amazing,” Tina raved an hour later, leaning back in her chair with a contented groan. “Where did you learn to cook like that?”

The last hour had been surprisingly stress-free. Once they’d made the mutual decision to leave the past alone, they’d relaxed into a companionable rhythm. Harris had cooked, Tina had kept the glasses filled, and they had chatted about nonsensically safe topics, like the weather, sports—both enjoyed watching cricket and tennis—and television shows. Harris didn’t have time to watch much, so he’d been asking her to fill him in on current shows he’d heard about but had never watched.

When she’d refused to spoil Game of Thrones for him, he’d laughed at her and told her the only way he’d ever watch the show was if she watched it with him. She’d agreed without thinking. So nightly Thrones viewings were now going to be a thing, and Tina wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Maybe she could wriggle her way out of it at some point, but for now, she was just really enjoying his company.

“I learned the basics of cooking from Auntie Stella,” Harris said. “Libby wasn’t the only one paying attention when she cooked, you know?”

Tina’s jaw dropped at the information. “Auntie Stella,” as Harris—and only Harris—called her, was Libby’s mother. Not even Tina—who had spent a lot of time during her formative years with Libby and her family—had ever felt comfortable enough to call her friend’s parents anything other than Mr. and Mrs. Lawson. But Harris had called them Auntie Stella and Uncle Roland as a sign of familiarity and respect. Tina wasn’t sure what—if anything—Greyson called them. She couldn’t recall the other man ever addressing them directly.

“I didn’t think cooking interested you?”

“It doesn’t, not as much as it did Libby, but I watched and I asked questions and I learned. I enjoy cooking my own meals. What about you?”

“Me? I hate cooking. I cook because I have to. And I’m not particularly good at it.” She laughed bitterly. “I’m not particularly good at anything.”

“So no passion for food, then?”

“Beyond my obvious love of eating it?” she asked with an amused snort, brushing her hands down her “childbearing” hips . . . which had the unanticipated effect of making his breathing a lot heavier as his eyes followed the movement of her hands.

“I like that you love your food,” he said, his voice taking on an added dimension of gravel, and she tilted her head as she watched him assessingly, trying to figure out if he actually meant that.