Page 67 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

LINCOLN

NASH: What do you want for dinner?

I’ll figure it out later.

NASH: I’m here, doing fucking nothing again. The least I can do is make food for you.

It’s fine. I’ll probably have Chinese food delivered when I get home.

I’m going to be late.

NASH: How late?

I don’t know.

After the biggest fumble of my fucking life—yes, the one where I kissed Nash goodbye—I did everything I could to be home late. I wasn’t sure I could face him. It took everything I had not to book a hotel and avoid going home for the next week.

Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was wrong with me?

A goodbye kiss? That was domestic relationship shit. That wasn’t a fucking-around-while-committing-insurance-fraud activity.

I had to get my shit together. I had to remind myself that this wasn’t permanent. This wasn’t a relationship. This was a business transaction of sorts. Ultimately, putting a few boundaries up would help. That, or using work as an excuse not to go home.

It was almost nine-thirty when I quietly let myself into my condo.

The smell of food stopped me in the doorway.

Nash stood in the kitchen, drifting between the counters and what looked like a wok.

I frowned. I didn’t own a wok. He paused long enough to smile at me, and I felt the gesture down to my very core. So much for boundaries.

“That smells good,” I commented as I slid out of my dress shoes and joined him in the kitchen.

“I’d hope so,” Nash said. He grabbed a spoon off the counter and scooped out a small amount from the wok. Holding it out to me, he ordered, “Open.”

I recoiled, eyeing him closely.

“How hot is that?”

“I’m not that much of an asshole,” he scoffed. “Okay, maybe I am, but the stove is off.”

“And has been for a while?” I demanded. “I like all my taste buds where they’re at, Nashville.”

“Open your damn mouth, Melvin,” he shot back, making me grin. I liked our back and forth. I opened like he asked, mostly because I trusted him, but also because my curiosity got the better of me.

The explosion of flavors on my tongue was instant, making me moan with appreciation.

There was food, and then there was whatever the hell this man had just made.

As he chuckled at my reaction, I took the spoon from him and helped myself to more.

Fuck, I skipped the bowl and ate straight from the wok.

“Holy shit,” I let out around another mouthful. I didn’t have a clue what he’d made, but it was delicious.

“Go sit down, you fucking heathen.” He tried to take the spoon from me, but I swatted his hand away. Instead, I kept eating. “I’ll make you a damn plate!”

“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I changed the topic.

I had no intention of sitting down. Not when the good stuff was on the stove.

It wasn’t like I wasn’t used to good food.

I was. I knew a lot of fantastic restaurants in town.

But cooking wasn’t my thing, and I rarely had time for it anyway, so a home-cooked meal was a treat.

“My mom worked in a Chinese restaurant when I was… fuck, I think I was eleven. Maybe I was twelve,” he explained. “Anyway, the guy who owned the place—Charles Wong—said I had an attitude problem.”

I snorted into my food.

“Fuck you,” Nash continued. “Anyway, he said that, if I was going to be a problem child, the least I could do for my mom was make sure she had a home-cooked meal after an extra shift. It taught me about patience and discipline, and it gave me an unhealthy love for knives.”

Laughing, I choked on my food. He slapped me on the back once like it’d help.

“Careful there,” he said. “Mr. Wong learned real quick that I couldn’t make anything other than a bowl of cereal, and he even criticized the way I poured the fucking milk. I ended up working and learning from him for years.”

“Forget you getting a job,” I replied as I set the spoon down. “Can I just pay you to cook?”

I was kidding. Mostly.

“I’m not that good,” Nash dismissed.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why do you always do that?” I demanded with a frown.

“I’m not doing anything,” he retorted.

“You are, though,” I said. “Every time I give you any kind of compliment, you find a way to dismiss it.”

“I don’t—”

“You do, though,” I interrupted him. “Any time I talk about your music, you dismiss it.”

“It’s just music,” Nash told me.

“But it’s not! You’re good—you’re better than good.”

“Drop it, Lincoln.” There was something in his tone that ticked me off. Why couldn’t he see how talented he was?

“No, I won’t. Do you not realize how fucking talented you are? Most people go through life without that kind of natural talent. I definitely have no fucking talent—”

“Leave it, Lincoln.”

“No—”

“Drop it—”

“Just shut up and let me love you!” I exclaimed over him. His lips parted with surprise, all of his frustration with me gone in a heartbeat. He didn’t have the chance to say anything before the reality of what I’d said hit me.

What the hell had I just said?

The panic quickly followed. My chest tightened horrifically, and I drew in a sharp breath as all the blood rushed from my head.

I had to get out of there.

“Lincoln—”

“No,” I interrupted, feeling my ears burn hot. “Just… I’ll be back.”

Stiff-legged, I made a quick exit to my room and shut myself in. The weight of my words hit me like a fucking truck, and I sank down on the edge of my bed.

What the hell had possessed me to say it?

Did I love him? My subconscious certainly seemed to think so. But was I in love with him? I knew I was attached to Nash. There was no denying that. I liked him in my life, and I liked our weird dynamic.

I liked… a lot about Nash.

Was I confusing attachment with love?

“Fuck,” I let out with a groan. I scrubbed my hands over my face. This was a fucking disaster—one I’d created, but still.

I had to put some space between me and him to get my head on straight. Our whole dynamic needed to be restructured. Nash wasn’t the guy for me. He’d been crystal clear from the beginning that he didn’t want a relationship. I knew that.

Can I crash on your couch tonight?

DEAN: You can stay in my guest room.

Thank you.

DEAN: Are you okay?

I don’t know.

DEAN: Did he hurt you?

He’s not a bad guy.

DEAN: But…

But you were right. I’m attached.

DEAN: I’ll drop you my location. Pin is 9753

Thank you.