Kiss To Forget (Blairwood University #2) - Anna B. Doe Page 0,6

discuss this any longer.

“Very well,” he finally concedes.

Coach moves to the stove and stirs something that’s simmering in a pot. I didn’t even see it until this very moment, but now I do. The air smells nice; it always does when he’s cooking. The smells of tomato and spices fill the room, making my stomach react and reminding me I haven’t eaten in a while.

For a single guy—that I know of, not that I actually bothered to ask, that or anything else for that matter—he’s actually quite a good cook. Not that I’d admit it out loud.

“How are classes going?” he asks, still engrossed in preparing dinner.

I noticed he does it often. Making sure he’s doing something else while he’s asking questions, so it doesn’t seem like he’s questioning me.

I look around, needing to do… something.

The table is already set, leaving me without anything to occupy myself, so I reluctantly sit down, opting for the table instead of a bar chair that separates the kitchen space from the dining room. The further away from him that I am, the better.

“They’re okay. The semester just started, but I’m sure it’ll pick up in no time.”

“How many did you take this time?”

That didn’t take too long. I steel myself as I say, “Six.”

He sighs. “You know you don’t have to…”

Irritated with the way this conversation is going, again, I snap at him. “I want it that way, so leave it.”

Coach opens his mouth to say something, but then shakes his head, and thankfully, lets it go, changing the subject instead. “Are you still volunteering?”

“Yup, I just came from there. I had to drop my friend at her boyfriend’s house before coming here.”

He hums noncommittally. “Callie, was it?”

For a moment, I’m surprised that he remembered, but then again, he’s always been good at remembering details. Well, all but one little detail, but that’s definitely not a topic we talk about.

Ever.

“Yes.”

“She’s still your roommate?”

“For this semester.”

I’m not sure what will happen next year, though. Callie and Hayden are really happy, and since they got back together, she’s been spending a lot of time at his place, just coming by the dorms to change and pick up some of her things before dashing out again. If they continue this way, by the end of the school year, they’ll talk about moving in together, I’m sure of it.

Coach turns off the stove and picks up whatever he’s been cooking to bring it to the table.

“Hope you like spaghetti Bolognese.”

The yummy smell reaches my nostrils, and my stomach grumbles in response. Loudly.

“That’s fine.” I shrug, trying to play it cool.

Since I know he’ll wait for me to fill my plate first, I reach out to grab pasta covered in sauce and put it on my plate, adding a bit of Parmesan on top.

I wait for him to do the same, and then we eat for a bit in tense silence, with only the sound of utensils scratching against the dishes filling the air.

My whole body is stiff, although I’ve become good at presenting a cool front in the past few months. I have to come here, but I don’t have to make it easy on him. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t come here in the first place.

Coach is the one who keeps the conversation going. He’s the one asking questions while I give him the bare minimum to satisfy his curiosity, never bothering to offer more than necessary and never asking anything in return.

I have to be here once a week, but I don’t have to like it, and I most definitely don’t want to get to know him.

He swallows his bite, and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “How were your holidays? Did you have fun in the city?”

I shrug, the bite I just swallowed feeling like a brick wall that fell on my stomach. “It was okay. Saw friends. Started reading some books that I’ll need for the upcoming semester. That’s about it.”

A heartbeat passes in silence. Two. Three. And then…

“How is your mother?”

My whole body grows rigid. It always does when he brings her up.

“I thought we had an agreement,” I say quietly.

“Yasmin…”

“No!” I let the fork fall out of my hands, and I push back from the table, chair scraping against the floorboards. “You don’t talk about her. You don’t ask about her. You don’t even speak her name.”

“I’m just worried.”

“Well, you’re too little too late, don’t cha think?” This time it’s he who flinches at my words. Good. He