Page 126 of Proposal Play
And now, Asher cooking for me not only makes my stomach growl, it makes my heart feel warm and squishy. Only, I don’t know what to do with this feeling, so I ask an obvious question. “Are you cooking us dinner?”
He holds up a wooden spoon, adopting an inquisitive look. “Let’s see. There’s food on the stove, dishes on the table, and wine. I’d call that dinner. It’s a butternut squash and chickpea curry. But,” he adds, his smile widening, “I also made an appetizer.”
“Stop. I love appetizers,” I say, maybe a little too excitedly. At least I don’t squeal. I give myself points for that.
He gives me a look like,Tell me something I don’t know. “Snacks, appetizers, dessert—yeah, I’ve got your number, Maeve Hartley.”
Hartley. I’ve always loved my last name. It’s the one my mother used on her books. It makes me feel close to her. But…when he calls me Mrs. Callahan, I feel something else. Something warm. I like it too—maybe more than I should. But I’m not going to point that out. Not now. That might be too much.
“Where’s this fabulous appetizer?”
“Here. It’s your favorite,” he says as he reaches for a white ceramic dish next to him, covered by a cloth napkin. He turns the heat down on the saucepan, strides over to me, and dramatically whips off the napkin.
“We can get to the bottom of the warm nut conspiracy.”
The hair on my arms stand on end. “You made warm nuts,” I say, like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.
Honestly, I think it is.
He runs his thumb over my wrist, and the heat of his touch travels all the way to my core. “What my wife wants, she gets.”
What I want...is him.
“What did you put in this?” I ask, taking another bite, savoring the rich flavors.
“Tofu, cilantro, butternut squash, and chickpeas,” he says.
It’s making my taste buds dance. “How did you know I’d like it?”
“You like chai lattes. You like hot sauce. You enjoy interesting dishes, variety, the unpredictable. But you also like cilantro, and Carlos grows it, so I picked some up from him earlier today,” he says with a knowing grin, gesturing to the herb I’m a little obsessed with.
In short—he’s paid attention.To me. He made the effort.For me.This is all so new. So foreign. “No one’s ever cooked for me before,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. “I mean…in a relationship—” Crap. We’re not in arealrelationship. I shouldn’t use that word. “I mean in a?—”
But he’s cooked dinner for me as a friend. We’ve had meals together with Beckett and Reina, with his teammates, and with Josie and Wesley. “I mean…well, you have. Obviously. There was the time you made enchiladas using Carlos’s family recipe, and the mushroom risotto…”
He gives me a soft smile. “I like cooking…for you.”
For you.
He’s not talking about cooking for the group. He’s talking about me. And he’s opening up to me. I should do the same. I take another bite of the delicious dish, then try again. “I guess I was saying no one has done this for me…”
“Romantically?” he suggests, his voice gentle, like he knew I needed him to finish the thought.
“Yeah, that,” I say, my chest warm from putting that word between us. It feels like it has a life of its own, a pulse, a heartbeat…romantic. “Gah. Why are words so hard?”
He laughs, the sound free and easy. “Maybe because my dinner is seducing you and stealing all your senses?”
“Clearly. And the warm nuts were more perfect than they were at five miles high. I guess we’ve solved theconspiracy,” I say, but there’s something else on my mind. The same thought from earlier with my friends still lingers. I don’t know how to act around him sometimes. But maybe there’s a way to fix it—by telling the truth. “Sometimes I feel out of place here. In your home,” I admit.
His brow furrows with concern. “What do you mean, Maeve?”
He knows my spotty romance history. He knows how Gideon left me flat on my ass. But I’ve never told himwhy. I didn’t want to plant that doubt in his mind, didn’t want him to see me that way.
No one likes a clingy woman. It’s the kiss of death in romance. Men want someone a little hard to get. No one would ever accuse me of being that.
I set my fork down, the weight of what I’m about to say pressing on my chest. “Gideon told me I was too clingy. He couldn’t handle all of my needs. He said he didn’t think any man ever could. And sometimes, I wonder…” I stop, my throat tightening as I force myself to take a breath. “I wonder if you’ll get tired of me. Of having me around. Even here, over the next few months.”
The words hang in the air, thin, reedy, full of raw emotion. I hate how vulnerable they make me feel.