Page 64 of All the Forbidden Things

“I’m not brave, I’m just . . . I don’t know. I’m just a girl trying to live her life.”

We watch each other. I take a step forward at the same time she does, at that exact moment the oven timer goes off again.

“The bread’s ready, and I’ve not even started the salad.”

“Fuck the salad,” I say while taking another step towards her.

“Sit, I’ll get you a plate and get this served up before it burns.” She turns away from me.

While she collects plates and cutlery, I put Layla into her swing chair and turn it on, so it sways and rocks her gently. When I head back to the table, there's only one place been set.

“What’s this?” I gesture towards the plate and cutlery.

“Your plate,” she replies while staring into the oven. “Can you lift this out? I’m worried I might drop it.”

“Where’s yours?”

She turns and looks my way, tosses me the oven gloves, and asks, “What?”

“Your plate?” I question.

Her brows pull down as she looks at the table and then back at me. “This is your dinner, not mine,” she explains.

“You’re not eating?”

The wave of disappointment at the thought of eating alone is more painful than it should be as it washes over me. I watch her as she scratches at the bare skin on the shoulder exposed by her sweatshirt.

“Have you eaten already?”

“No. I just wasn’t sure—”

“Bamm, you're in my house, it’s dinner time, you eat. Get a plate, I’ll get the lasagna and garlic bread out of the oven. There’s wine in the fridge if you want some.”

She stares at me a moment before asking, “You sure?”

“Get a fucking plate and sit your arse down.” She gives me a smile so big I feel it in my chest and all the way down to my balls.

We move around each other in my kitchen as I retrieve the food from the oven, and Billie grabs her own plate and two wine glasses. It feels good having her in my space. I like it more than I probably should.

“It’s red?” She turns and questions from the open door of the fridge.

“Yeah.”

“You chill your red?”

“Yeah. I don’t like my red at room temperature, especially with food.”

She closes the fridge door, her smile beaming at me from across the room as she moves towards my way. “I drink my red chilled too. It’s a habit I picked up in California. Room temp was way too warm for me, and I totally agree, if you’re drinking it with food, it has to be chilled.” She pauses beside where I’m standing behind my chair at the table. “Especially if the food’s spicy. I’ve just not met anyone else in this country who drinks it like this.”

That thing happens again. Along with the silence that says so very much, there’s that thing I can’t quite explain. It’s like a pull, a little arc of electricity that bounces between us, attempting to reel us in and draw us closer together.

I reach out and take the bottle from her. Our fingertips touch, but neither of us pulls away. She stares up, I stare down. I want to kiss her so fucking bad I visualise how it will go, heads slanting, mouths crashing, tongues teasing and tangling. I can almost taste her, feel the softness of her lips . . .

Almost.

But I don’t move. I won’t. I can’t. I don’t want to ruin what we have. And I care too much to involve her in the shit I have going on in my life. Billie’s been through enough, and the last thing she needs is to become entangled in my drama.

So, instead of kissing her, I reach for the back of her chair and pull it out. “After you.” I gesture with my head to her chair.