like she doesn’t believe me. “No, really. See?” I shove a giant forkful into my mouth, chew, then swallow.
It truly is good. Probably one of the best dishes I’ve ever had.
My father tried his hardest to do what he could in the kitchen when my mom left, but he never quite got the hang of it. More nights than not, we ate sandwiches or macaroni and cheese.
“I’m tired is all,” I explain. “I zone out a bit when I get that way. I’m not trying to not eat.”
She looks like she wants to say something else but decides against it. Instead, she nods, then drops her attention back to the bowl in front of her, which is almost as full as mine.
I shovel several more bites of the tomatoey pasta into my gullet to make her happy, then reach for the can of soda I have sitting on the counter next to me and take a drink.
Her fork clatters against the bowl, and I nearly spit my drink out, caught off guard.
She turns her fiery eyes to me. “Are we going to talk about last night or sit in awkward silence for the rest of the time I’m living here?”
“Nope,” I tell her. I finish off the rest of my soda, then crush the can against my leg and toss it into the trash can across from me.
She huffs out a growl. “Why not?”
“Because nothing happened.”
“Nolan, come on.” She sighs. “Be an adult about this.”
“I am. I’m moving on and you should too.”
Her eyes sharpen on me again and she works her jaw back and forth. “Really?”
“Yup.”
“Fine,” she snips back.
I drop my fork into my now empty bowl, then march to the sink. I rinse out the dirty dish and plop it into the dishwasher.
I can feel her eyes on me as I grab the plug from under the sink and put it in place. I twist on the hot water and squirt out some dish soap, letting it fill up while I grab the dirty pots and pans from the stovetop.
She doesn’t say anything as she finishes off her dinner and drains the rest of her wine…then refills it with well over two fingers of bourbon.
Without another word, glass in hand, she pads down the hall to her bedroom.
She doesn’t slam the door, and somehow that’s worse.
Somehow, I know it means she’s truly pissed.
Good. Let her be angry.
Anger will keep her away.
Anger will keep us separated.
Anger will keep me from making any more dumb decisions.
I don’t need to get involved with Maya for a myriad of reasons, the biggest being I can’t give her what she wants the most—love.
9
Maya
Moving in with Nolan was a massive mistake for one obvious reason: I’m undeniably attracted to him.
Based on that alone, I should have thanked him politely for his offer and declined it, then moved in with River and Dean.
Except I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t put them through that.
So I pulled up my big girl panties and moved in with the first guy to make me want to pull said panties down in a long time.
We’ve barely talked since we kissed. We’ve been too busy tiptoeing around one another to speak.
Luckily, Nolan works long hours, so I only have to avoid him in the evenings when he’s home. I make dinner and leave it on the stove for him, then hide away in my bedroom. I’ve already blazed through two whole seasons of Dawson’s Creek, so I can’t say it’s been a total waste.
“So, how’s everything going with Nolan? I feel like we haven’t had a real chance to talk this week with all the orders coming into the shop.” River shovels a bite of pie into her mouth. How she can eat that many sweets, especially in the morning, is beyond me, but the girl can consume pie like nobody’s business.
It’s Sunday morning and we’re at The Gravy Train for our near-weekly routine of breakfast and gossip. Though, admittedly, it’s not as much fun as it used to be back when River was single and dating. Now, we mostly complain about customers at work.
“It’s fine.”
Her fork stops mid-bite, and she tips her head to the side. I shift under her watchful gaze, hating the way she’s staring at me. “You keep saying that, but I’m not sure you mean it.”
My heart rate picks up. Does she know about the kiss? No, that’s crazy. There’s no way she could.