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His head turns to the kitchen, and that ache that hasn't been soothed in a few days throbs with need. Wearing only his combat pants with a black short sleeve that creased and ruffled at the bottom like he’s pulled it from his pants. He frowns, almost amused, and looks at my hand while treading toward me.
The closer he gets, the more I see the definition in his chest from the shirt hugging it well and his disheveled hair that he threads through again.
“Salut,” he drags out tiredly, stopping next to me in the middle of the island. He looks right at my belly and touches it lightly. “How's your ribs?”
I shrug. “Better. How was everything with Jax?”
Ronan pulls away, sighing with a deep breath. “As I expected. Nothing on the Guerillas, as of now. But we found a group called Santori’s, and retrieved another group of girls.”
I nodded with a sigh of relief, but there’s pity sitting beneath my chest. I wanted to hear some other good news because every father needs a daughter, and every daughter deserves a good father.
I sigh. “It's only been two days, maybe something will come up.”
“Maybe. We’ll find them and shut them down like everyone else.” He leans down to the side and kisses my cheek as if it's something we do regularly. Musky sweat mingles with his sandalwood scent, and outside air whirls around us. My mouth waters and a shiver runs down my back.
Ronan tilts his head slightly, we’re now nose to nose, then he brushes his lips against mine. The kiss is soft, and the peck makes our skin stick together from it. I could keep his lips on me all day and never grow tired of it. How it makes my body awaken like a sunrise over the mountain. Unfortunately, he pulls away, and my lips grow cold.
“What is this?” he asks once he sees my hand again.
Of course, I forgot I’m holding a knife between my fingers. I lower it, balling my other hand. “A little game I played while I waited for you.”
Ronan squirts dish soap onto his palm, turns the sink knob and begins to wash his hands. “You waited for me? Did you...” I watch a low grin play on his lips and his dimples appear. He turns his head to look at me. “Did you cook for me, too?”
My eyes dim as I stroll around to sit down. “I don’t cook.”Never ever. Then the vision of me standing by the stove making some pasta fills my head, and I almost choke on the air I’m breathing.
“Can you cook?”
I snuff the image away, and I flick my hair over my shoulders. “No. I never found a reason to learn.” I peer at him as he dries his hands with a cloth. “Can you?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “Yes, I can.”
My brows shoot up surprised. “Is your ‘cooking’ the version where you chop someone in half and shred them through a meat grinder?”
Ronan laughs deep as he too comes to sit by me, making himself comfortable. I enjoy his throaty laugh, it's so natural and pleasing to the ear, and it makes my insides melt. “While that does sound like my type of thing. No.” He uncovers the lid of the mushroom soup and sets it aside. “I cook food.”
That is a shocking surprise. I would never have guessed this man of all people would know to make food. Now I can erotically picture Ronan in an apron fingering a crème brûlée. I clear my throat.
“How did you learn?”
I notice his shoulders stiffen, and he pauses only for a second before he scoops a spoonful of creamy soup and puts it inside my bowl.“Minha mae.”
Hearing him mention his mother sends a churn to my stomach. He’s never shared anything about his mother, even when he was close to our family. The only thing I do know about her, from what I read in the tabloids, is that she passed away.
He moves to his bowl, putting some inside. “Every Saturday, she would drag me downstairs to teach me a new recipe in her homemade book. She would tell me, ‘You need to know how to feed yourself, to survive. I won't raise any sons dependent on others to feed him.’” I smile as he tries to imitate what would sound like a wise mom.
Ronan puts my spoon into my soup and continues. “My brother and I would always get upset because we had chefs. Why would we need to cook?” His gaze sets on his stove, a low, somber grin curls on his lips. “It was ridiculous to me.”
I think of him sulking and stomping his feet while his mother showed him measuring cups. I wonder what she looked like, did he take after her or his dad? You can’t find a photo of her anywhere, and that's either very strange or they wanted to protect her privacy as much as possible. I look at our fixed plates as he drops the salad next. “Now, when I think back on it, it's something I appreciate. Those times spent are the valuable memories I have of her.”
An odd nostalgia spreads over me, and I suddenly think of my mother. How the times we spent together were always a teaching moment. Like Ronan, it was mundane and annoying, yet those are the times I want back the most. “Were you close?” I ask. I slid my plate and bowl in front of me once he was done.
He finally looks at me, and I can see the faint dullness in his eyes. “We were very close.”
We hold each other's stare, and I find my hand reaching over to cup his, skimming my finger over his knuckles. “That's very sweet. Holding the good memories of her and not the painful ones.” My eyes drift to our joined hands, then back to him. “Thank you for sharing that with me.” There's something there that flicks inside of me that makes me want to...reach out to my mother.
He kisses the front of my hand before letting go and turning to his food. “Now I rarely cook, but I did open up a new cooking elective in the school program for the students. And no.” He points his long finger at me. “It's not shredding human meat.” He grins darkly; the solemn energy vanishes as if the conversation weren't dimmed in mood.
I chuckle. “Speaking of students.” I raise the two bottles of dressing I can find in the refrigerator, Italian or thousand island. He points to the Italian, and I pass it to him. Then I drizzled some thousand dressing onto mine. “One of your students asked if I could ask you about conducting a Christmas dance.” She also asked if I can be the new teacher, but I don't need to mention that now. It’ll only open another can of worms that I’m not ready to talk about.