Down and Out(18)

When I feel steady, I call out, “Morning,” and grab the eggs, tomatoes, lunch meat, and cheese—basically the entire contents of the fridge.
“Why do you have such a big, expensive refrigerator if you’re not going to keep any food in it?” I close the wide double doors on top and peek into the pull-out freezer on the bottom. Except for the lone Salisbury steak TV dinner, there’s nothing but frost and a bottle of Jack Daniels. I roll my eyes at the typical single guy fare and set my items on the counter, next to the stovetop that looks like it’s never been used. “Seems like you could find something cheaper to decorate your kitchen with. Like maybe some fake grapes and empty bottles of wine, or something.”
As I search for a pan, he mumbles, “Yeah, I’ve, uh, been meaning to go to the store.”
I pull a pan out from the cabinet next to the oven and set it on the stove, turning the heat on to low. “Mixing bowl?” I ask over my shoulder, seeing him point to the cabinet in front of me. “Gracias,” I say, grabbing it and setting about cracking the eggs.
“What are you making?”
“Omelettes. Hey, do you have any butter? I can’t remember if I saw any.” I open a couple drawers until I find a fork, then start whisking my concoction.
“Yeah, I think so. It may be behind the milk.”
“Can you grab it for me?” I’m busy opening random cabinets, looking for salt and pepper.
“I, uh. . .”
When he stammers incoherently and doesn’t get up, I turn away from the open cabinet in front of me. Crossing my arms, I lean my hip against the countertop, watching him clutch the sheet to his lap. “FYI, I already got a peek at what you’re trying to hide there, and while it is impressive, it’s nothing that I haven’t seen before.”
A slow, easy grin spreads across his face as he nods to my clothes. “I’m telling myself the same thing about you, Kitten, but my dick just doesn’t seem to wanna listen.”
My face heats as I look down at my sleeping shorts and tank top. They’d seemed innocuous enough, but now I realize how little they actually cover.
He wraps the sheet around his waist and stands, walking over to the fridge to retrieve the butter. Then he saunters over to me, until he’s close enough that I feel the heat from his skin. “Here,” he says, holding up the unopened stick.
The way he says it, it almost seems like a dare. But what, exactly, is he daring me to do? Make a move? Kiss him?
That’s not going to happen. I’m trying to be on the straight and narrow. I’m trying to be better than the girl I left behind. I might have been born into nothing, but that doesn’t mean I have to do nothing with my life. I want to go to college; I want to make something of myself. And this tattooed package of sin standing before me is one distraction I cannot afford, no matter how tempting he might be.
Keeping my eyes on the butter, I’m careful not to touch his fingers as I take it. “Thank you.” The words are so quiet I’m not even sure he hears them.
I cook the rest of the meal in peace. Declan disappears down the hallway at some point and returns wearing a pair of red basketball shorts and a black and white Vans t-shirt. I’m simultaneously grateful and saddened that he’s obstructed my view of his fabulous body.
Toast pops up in the toaster and I add it to his plate before walking our food over to the dining table. Declan grabs two glasses and the gallon of milk from the fridge, then meets me there.
As he eyes the food on our plates, he frowns. “Mine’s bigger than yours.”
I nod and cut off a chunk of omelette with my fork. “You’re way bigger than me, so. . .”
“So,” he says, switching our plates. “I’m obviously well-fed. You, on the other hand—”
I smack his hand away and take my plate back. “I don’t need a fifty pound omelette, okay? I have every intention of finishing what’s on my plate, and if I’m still hungry, I’ll make myself another one. Deal?”
He begrudgingly picks up his fork, his brows still angry dark slashes above his brilliant green eyes, and mutters, “Deal.” His face relaxes after the first bite. “Holy shit, this is really good.”
I swallow and take a drink. “Thank you.” I’ve been cooking since I was tall enough to see over the stove, and I’d like to think that after so many years, I know what I’m doing. Well, in the kitchen, at least. Life in general . . . not so much.
Declan’s eyes dip down to the bruise on my face while he eats, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He probably doesn’t want an awkward reminder of last night lingering over us, and I can’t really blame him. He steers clear of it altogether and says, “You didn’t have to cook, you know. I could’ve gone to get us something.”
“Are your culinary skills really that bad that you can’t make an omelette?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says around a mouthful of food. “I would’ve burned it for sure.”
The faint trace of those damn dimples have my own lips curving into a grin as I cut off another bite. “And yes, I did have to make breakfast. It’s the least I could do, since you’re letting me stay here.” He opens his mouth, probably to protest, but I hold up my hand and say, “As long as I’m here, I’m gonna chip in for my share of things—rent, utilities, groceries, whatever.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but as you so passionately pointed out last night, I’m not hurting for money. So you can keep yours. Save it for your own place or something.”