One Look: A grumpy, single dad small town romance(43)

I eyeballed a nub of ginger root, pulled herbs from the pantry, started to boil water, and got to work.

When I heard Lark’s light footsteps behind me, I stared down at the cutting board and continued chopping.

“You stayed.”

I smirked at the scallion I was mincing. “Kicking me out?”

Her gentle laugh made my insides go tight. “Well, I would have deserved it after I ran out of your place.”

I risked a glance at her over my shoulder. Her dress was buttoned and her hair gently tousled. A light flush stained the delicate skin on her chest, and it hit me again how rough I had been with her.

I grunted and slipped my hand into the front pocket of my jeans. I pulled out the key she’d left at my place and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. “You left that.”

She walked up and smiled down at it before picking it up. “Thanks for returning it.” Lark dragged her fingertips down my triceps to my wrist before moving to put it away. Heat raced up my arm and through my chest at her touch.

I continued assembling and chopping and tried to focus on anything but the mass of complicated feelings that were running through my mind.

“Whatcha making me?” Lark gave me space but hopped up on the countertop to watch me cook.

“Ramen.” I used the chef’s knife in my hand to point at her. “The good kind.”

In my many years as a bachelor, I’d learned to make a pretty wicked dish with instant ramen, some aromatics, and an egg.

Larked eyed the ingredients I was lining up on the counter. “You know some people think cooking is a love language.”

I frowned at the water that was refusing to boil. “Love language?”

“Yeah . . . acts of service. Love languages. It’s how people give and receive love.” Lark talked with her hands, and it hit me just how cute she could be. “Let me see. There’s that, gifts, words of affirmation, physical touch—”

I pointed the spatula at her. “That one. That one’s mine.”

She rolled her eyes and tossed a slice of scallion at me. “Says every guy ever.”

I moved to stand between her knees and tipped her chin with my fingers so her eyes would meet mine. “I’m feeding you. It’s the least I can do after how rough I was with you.”

“You can call it whatever you want as long as it means you standing in my kitchen half-naked, cooking for me.”

I ran a hand across my bare abs. “Do you have a shirt I can borrow?”

She grinned. “Nope.”

I growled and nipped at her neck, causing an eruption of giggles that shot straight through me.

“And for the record, you weren’t too rough,” Lark added. “In fact I’m a little bummed you didn’t just rip this dress open.”

I raised an eyebrow at her teasing. “Is that so? I’ll remember that for next time.”

The muscles in her neck moved as she swallowed hard.

“So about that . . . next time.”

I shifted, focusing on finishing her food and not on the shift in the conversation.

“I wouldn’t mind that, but I think we need to talk about it a little. Ground rules?”

I nodded. “I agree.”

“Maybe we don’t say anything to Penny. I wouldn’t want her getting confused or having too many questions.”

I dumped the noodles into the water and continued working as she rambled on.

“Or the guys—they don’t need to know. And I feel like if Tootie knows, then the whole town is going to be talking, so maybe we just . . . keep this between us?”

It felt an awful lot like she wanted to hide whatever was developing between us. I should have been relieved. Thrilled. I couldn’t quite place why it didn’t sit right with me.

I checked the noodles and went to work on the broth. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s for the best, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.”

Lark stayed quiet but watched me cook. In a bowl I layered the noodles and a dark broth. I sliced the soft-boiled egg and smiled at myself.

Nailed it.

I slid the bowl toward Lark. “Fancy ramen.”

She beamed up at me, and for a second I wanted to tell her to screw her plan. If we were going to keep fucking, there was no way I wasn’t going to want to show her off in public, claim her as mine, and treat her like a fucking queen.

But she was right.

In Outtatowner that meant questions and unsolicited opinions and having to explain casual relationships to my seven-year-old.

Fuck that.

Right now, with the way my life was running off the rails, I’d take Lark in whatever capacity she was willing to give.

I opened the silverware drawer and plucked out a pair of wooden chopsticks.

Lark scrunched her nose at me. “How do you know where everything is?”

I grinned and leaned against the counter next to her as she began eating. “Lived here. All of us but Katie did at some point. It’s how I knew to tell you to avoid that green recliner.”

It was the first time I noticed it was missing from the living room.

“What’s the deal with that chair, anyway?” Lark took another bite, and the soft moan of appreciation was a shot to the gut.

“Lee lost his virginity in that chair, and then for a while it became his ‘lucky chair.’”