If I Were You(Inside Out 01)(52)

With a deep breath, I snatch the journal and set it on the counter, staring at it, barely containing the urge to read the entry in question. Every time I re-read a page, the content becomes more meaningful, and pieces of the Rebecca puzzle fall into place. I ignore the idea, snatching my brush.
Quickly, I run it through my hair, and consider applying makeup before settling for rinsing my face and applying some moisturizer. Make up would look like I’m trying too hard. I think of the kiss I’d craved from Chris and been denied and the urge to brush my teeth is intense. Out of desperation, I decide to use my finger and water on my teeth. Surprise, surprise. It’s a wasted effort. I have no toothpaste. I grab some tissue and scrub my teeth before rinsing again.
Without much more ado, I give up, and exit the bathroom. Stopping by the coffee table, I drop my purse and grab the plates and the drink cups we’d left there. Loaded up, I head toward the kitchen that thus far is producing no promising scent of cooking food.
I pass the archway between the living room and the kitchen and don’t see Chris, but there is a massive rectangular island counter of grey and black marble with gorgeous grey wooden shelves above and below it. I follow the sound of movement toward a corner to the right, which appears to be a part of an ‘L’ shaped room, but not without being distracted by the hollowed oval eating nook surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and more of the breathtaking view of the city. I love this kitchen. I love this entire apartment so far.
I turn into the bottom of the “L” and find a rectangular room with a counter and a stainless-steel sink on one side. Opposite is another counter with a stove, fridge, and the sexy owner of the apartment, who is busy gathering salt, pepper, plates, and various other items he needs, depositing them in a corner by the stove.
“This kitchen is a chef’s dream,” I declare, disposing of the dishes in the sink opposite him.
“It comes with the apartment so don’t start thinking I’m a master chef.” He opens the fancy fridge with double doors and sets eggs and cheese on the counter. “There’s a reason why I know all of the local restaurant crowd.”
I move to the side of the counter on the opposite side of the stove from where he is working to watch him crack several eggs into a bowl. My gaze is drawn to his hands, and I cannot help but think of how expertly he’d touched my body, how expertly he handles a paint brush. How expertly he’d known how to keep me on the edge and then take me over.
He glances at me, and I feel as if he’s reading my thoughts. Part of me burns to boldly embrace what he’s making me feel, but the old me — the real me? - rushes to cover up what I am thinking for no apparent reason. “I know how to shop in the frozen food section of my grocery store and that’s about it. My mom was…we…didn’t cook.”
He whisks eggs in a bowl and adds milk, salt, and pepper. “Was your mom too busy to cook or she didn’t like to cook?”
How did I let this conversation start? “My father didn’t like her cooking so she didn’t cook.”
He rests a hand on the counter. “He cooked?”
“Ah no. My father doesn’t do domestic tasks.”
He fires up the burner and pours a little oil in the pan. “So who cooked? You or a sibling?”
“I’m an only child and I don’t cook.” He glances at me, a curious expression on his face, and I know why. I’m making a simple question complicated because I always make things regarding my father complicated. “We had a private chef.” The surprised look on his face makes me regret I’ve gone there and I motion to the coffee pot sitting in front of me. “I’m falling down on my job.”
He hesitates a moment, and I think he wants to push me for more information, but thankfully he seems to change his mind. He dumps the toppings on the eggs into the pan and agrees, “That was the deal. I cook. You brew.”
“Aye, Captain,” I say with a mock salute, and I reach for the canister, noting the glowing green time at the base of the fancy silver and black pot. It reads the early hour of seven-thirty. Much too early for the knots in my stomach the family drama confessions I don’t intend to make to form.
I set the lid aside and draw in the scent of the coffee and think of Ava for a moment. She’d smelled like coffee when I’d hugged her at the gallery. Or, I was drunk and my nose was in overload like my big mouth that blurted out ‘cock-fight’. “It smells like…Cup O’ Cafe.”
“Not even close,” Chris says, joining me, his shoulder brushing mine, and I am blown away by the blast of awareness it creates, and thankful for how quickly it untwines the knot in my stomach. Our skin isn’t touching, and still he does this to me.
He inhales the beans and then holds the canister to my nose for me to do the same. “That’s the scent of a French blend by Malongo in Paris. I bring it with me when I come to the States. I love the stuff.”
“I can’t wait to try it,” I say and mean it. He loves the coffee, the pizza, and Tom Hanks. I love that he is passionate about so many things. About me? At least for now? I’ll take it, I decide. His passion is contagious.
“Four scoops for a pot,” he informs me.
I nod and get to work, two frying pans sizzling beside me. I’m pouring the water into the pot when I am struck by how utterly unexpected and comfortable this domestic experience with Chris is. His earlier confessions about never bringing a woman home lends to an assumption, he too, is on unfamiliar territory. He never brings a woman home? Surely he means rarely. Doesn’t he?