She snorted. “I promise you, it’s not.”
“All right . . .”
Shaking her head at him, she flipped the burner off and stepped to the side. She grabbed one mug from a dish drainer beside the sink, then dug around in a cabinet until she came up with another, larger one in a different color. She sprinkled something from a couple of little foil packets into the pot and stirred, then unceremoniously dumped whatever concoction she’d made into the mugs. Tugging open a drawer, she came up with two mismatched spoons and dropped one in each. “Here you go.” She gestured at the soup as if to say go ahead.
He had to admit. He was intrigued.
Expecting her to step back, he darted forward, and his skin prickled with heat when she refused to yield an inch. It was the closest they’d been since she’d let him inside, nearly as close as when he’d grabbed her wrist. Only this time she wasn’t staring him down or yelling at him. He saw his opening. Ever so slowly, he put his hand to her waist, molding to the soft curve of her frame. Her breath stuttered, and his heart pounded, and maybe this wasn’t a lost cause after all. He breathed her in for a moment, the faint scent of still-wet paint weaving together with the roses and vanilla of her hair, drawing him closer.
And he almost leaned in. Very nearly reached forward to take the kiss he’d been aching for these past three months. But for all that her body spoke of invitation, her eyes were terrified, the line of her mouth hard.
He schooled his reaction and reminded himself: This girl was worth playing the long game for.
Holding her gaze, he reached beyond her to take the closest cup by its handle. With it firmly in his grasp, he let go of her side.
She stared at him, dazed, as he stepped back. Every inch of space he put between them hurt, but he could be patient. He could wait.
There wasn’t a table or any place to sit in her kitchen, so he turned toward the main room. He didn’t find much better options there. The lone chair she appeared to own was a rolling one, pulled up beside a little painted white desk tucked into a corner beside her easel. If he sat there, she’d be worlds away from him.
It was a calculated risk. But after a moment’s thought, he crossed the space to her bed. A double, barely big enough for two—not that he’d mind. If she ever let him take her to it, he’d never want to let her go. Having to sleep pressed tight against her . . . He couldn’t think of anything better.
He cast one look over his shoulder at her before dropping down to sit on the edge of her mattress. It barely gave at all, but it would do. Soft, worn-looking purple sheets slipped beneath his hand as he stroked the material. Maybe she’d join him here. Sit beside him.
But instead, she hovered in the doorway, mug clutched tightly enough her knuckles went white.
For the first time, he directed his attention to his own cup, and he had to stop himself from frowning. Its contents were . . . well, brown. A curly mass of noodles in a murky broth. He poked at it with his spoon and raised a brow. Across the room from him, Kate brought a spoonful to her mouth and blew on it, rosy lips puckering, and he lost the thread for a second, just watching the shape of her mouth.
Then she gestured for him to go ahead. His haze receded, and he regarded his mug again. Her gaze sat like a weight on him as he gathered up some noodles, anticipation like a shiver through his skin.
Shrugging, he took a bite.
This was not a test. If pressed, Kate would swear up, down, and sideways that it wasn’t. She honestly didn’t have anything else in the house to offer him.
And yet, as he closed his mouth around his spoon, she held her breath.
He’d said so many things, their final day in Paris together. She’d been blind with fury and betrayal, shoving her things into her suitcase and barely able to see through the threat of tears. And he’d talked. Told her his regrets, told her how he’d only lied to her because he wanted her so much.
He’d wanted to be normal. To have this little slice of normalcy, there, in that room, with her. And she had so very, very nearly turned around.
The problem was, he didn’t even know what normal was. It didn’t matter how torn up she was over seeing him, bouncing between elation and rage and every possible emotion in between—if he couldn’t handle cheap, terrible noodles—if he couldn’t manage to get them down without lying to her . . . then they were doomed.
He pulled the spoon from between those soft, too-kissable lips, and his shoulders stiffened, his expression going impassive. It took him a hell of a long time to swallow.
“So?” she asked.
His throat bobbed as he managed to get his mouthful down. “Well . . .”
“Don’t lie.” And it was supposed to come out light, even teasing. But there was too much history between them. It was too loaded of a statement. Her throat felt raw.
His gaze snapped up to hers, something dark and sharp passing behind his eyes.
Of course he knew this was a test.
Moving ever so slowly, he reached to the side and set his mug down on her bedside table. She stared at the bright red handle of the thing, a stupid freebie she’d picked up in the student union for signing up for something, and she was serving fucking ramen to some society heir in it. Her eyes prickled.
And then he was in her space, warm hands closing around hers, and she’d nearly forgotten how good it felt to be touched. To have this man, the one who could have any woman he wanted—and who probably had—to have him touching her . . .
Don’t. Her mind screamed at her. Don’t trust him, don’t let him in, don’t let him touch you again. But her body went rigid. Frozen.
He coaxed her fingers to unclench, gently prying her mug from her. Twisted to set it on the counter behind her, and that put them even closer. She felt unbearably brittle, like any little thing could cause her to shatter, but the heat of him, the proximity of his body hovering over hers, it melted the edges of her. Fused them together with this vague, impossible promise that he could make her whole.
Taking her face between his palms, he tilted her head up until she had no choice but to look at him. The dazzling blue of his eyes stared back at her, and she’d loved this man so much. For one perfect week, she had.
But she couldn’t trust him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. For every single thing I did that caused you pain.”
She shook her head within his grasp, vision going blurry. Wasn’t that exactly what she wanted him to say? What she’d always wanted all the men in her life who had hurt her to say?
His gaze went deeper. “If you don’t want me to lie to you about how oversalted and unappealing that soup is, then I won’t. I can promise you, I will never, ever lie to you again. Not about anything that matters, and not about your cooking, either, if that’s what you want.”
A snort of laughter broke through her closed-up throat. “I’d hardly call it cooking.”
He didn’t let her change the subject or digress. “Whatever you want to call it, then. I won’t lie about it.”
She gazed back up into his eyes. “Would you have told me the truth about it, though?” Because that had been the problem. When she’d called him out on all his not-quite truths in Paris, he’d sworn he’d never lied to her, not outright, and maybe he hadn’t been wrong about that. But he’d kept his silences, muttered vague agreements that dodged all around the questions she’d really been asking him. “Or would you have just said nothing? Just let me believe what I wanted to?”
He stroked his thumbs across her cheeks. “We’re not arguing about your soup here.”
“No. I guess we aren’t.”
Sighing, an aching sadness to him, he took one of his hands and braced it on the wall behind her. “So talk to me about something besides soup.”
Like all of her strings had been cut, she sagged, leaning back into the wall. It would be so easy to let her head fall forward onto his shoulder, to rest there for a moment. He was clearly ready to give her whatever comfort she wanted, but it wouldn’t fix anything. Him showing up here, making promises he’d given her no reason to believe up until this point—it didn’t solve anything.