Within These Walls (Within These Walls #1)(25)

“This is Lailah,” he simply answered.

“Well, your stuff is all back there and ready to go. Take as much time as you need, hon.”

His large hand went to her tiny shoulder and squeezed it for a moment. “Thank you for this,” he said before pushing the wheelchair forward once again.

Another set of doors and a few seconds later, we were in the cafeteria kitchen.

I took a look around, noticing the huge stainless steel commercial refrigerators, ovens, and countertops. Everything gleamed and shined under the fluorescent lights. On the counter located in the center were several shopping bags from a local grocery store my mother and I would pass on the way home from the hospital. Next to the bags were stacks of produce, different types of meats and cheeses, and a chocolate cake.

“What are we doing in here?” I asked as my gaze continued to wander around the large space.

“We are cooking lunch,” he said.

My expression must have shifted to extreme surprise or maybe fear because a loud, booming laugh came tumbling out of him. It was the first real laugh I’d heard from him, and it was beautiful. So many other times I’d caught him laughing, it had been timid and apprehensive, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed the pleasure of doing so. Hearing this laugh felt real, like I was finally seeing and hearing his soul.

“You look mortified,” he finally said, still chuckling.

“Maybe slightly, but I’m more surprised. We’re cooking? Really?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, I can’t take you to the beach—you know, without busting you out of the hospital and getting fired. So, I figured I’d do this. It’s not much—”

“It’s perfect,” I said, interrupting him.

“Good,” he replied. “Let’s get to work.”

“Before we start, I do have one quick question,” I said, looking down at my current seating arrangement. “Do I have to sit in this thing all day? You know, I can walk.”

“Oh! Sorry. I was just trying to stick to hospital policy. Yeah, you can stand up. Just no treadmills.”

“What?” I asked, completely thrown off by his comment.

He grinned, moving forward to offer me a hand, as I stood. I’d normally decline. I liked being able to do things by myself, but the idea of touching him again was too tempting.

Just because I know he isn’t for me doesn’t mean I don’t want him to be.

A girl can dream.

When his hand slid into mine, I felt that same sizzle I’d felt when his breath caressed my ear. Feeling instant heat, my stomach clenched, and my pulse started to race.

And it had nothing to do with heart failure.

Our eyes met as he helped me up.

“Nothing. Sorry. Lame joke,” he mumbled quickly. “Let’s make some lunch. I’m starving.” He let go of my hand and turned to the counter. He began pulling things out of the bags and started setting them out.

“So, what are we making?”

“I thought we’d do something simple since it’s your first time in a kitchen, and I’m a terrible cook.”

I made a snorting sound before bringing my hand to my mouth. “You are supposed to be teaching me how to cook a meal, and you don’t know how to cook?” I asked, still holding back laughter.

He folded up the reusable grocery bag, set it on the counter, and turned to me. His expression was once again light and amused. The awkwardness he’d been carrying moments earlier when our hands touched had seemed to dissipate.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t cook. I just said I was a terrible cook. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, okay. So, what terrible food are we having today?” I asked, peeking around at the various things lined up on the steel counter.

“I thought we’d go easy and make pizza. How badly could we mess up pizza?”

“That sounds like a challenge.” I laughed.

“Well, let’s at least try for edible. I had some help. Abigail’s grandfather, Nash, gave me some pointers, so I’m pumped.” He shook his hands out and stretched out his neck like he was preparing for a fight. “Yeah, we can do this.”

I giggled. “Okay, let’s go for it.”

He’d thankfully bought prepared dough, and all we had to do was roll it out.

It was easier said than done.

“Don’t you just roll it with a rolling pin?” I asked, looking around for one.

“I thought you threw it up in the air?”

“Only if you have a twisty handlebar mustache and happened to be named Luigi. I think beginners roll it out.”

We searched high and low for a rolling pin and managed to finally find one on the back of a corner shelf.

Jude pulled the sticky dough out of the bag and plopped it down on the clean counter. “We need flour.” Half of the dough was still stuck to his palm.

I went on another mission to find flour, and luckily, that didn’t take nearly as long. Pulling out a large handful from the canister, I coated the dough and the counter, and then I sprinkled some on his hands.

“Help me get the rest of this off,” he said, holding up his fingers still covered in dough.

Making sure my hands were properly floured, I started moving my hands over his, taking off bits of dough as I went. Our fingers brushed and wove together while not a word was said. He watched me as I did this, his eyes taking in every movement like he was studying it.