Page 75 of Falling Offsides

And the smell—so warm, homey, deep enough that my chest aches.

Auguste doesn’t notice me right away.

He’s got his sleeves pushed to his elbows, his hair is a damp and frizzy mess from the rain. His broad back moves rhythmically as he stirs something in a skillet, wrist twisting with practiced ease.

I just stand here.

Watching.

Entranced.

Completely hypnotized by his ease, how it changes the air around me and seeps into my bones.

I’ve never felt anything like the giddy sensation fluttering through me. Part swoon, part butterflies, and part…part yearning. Like there’s a rope lassoed around my insides, pulling and tugging me to him harder with every second I dig my heels into the stone floor.

Auguste turns when Sammy bounds to him. Pawing at his legs for attention and maybe a taste of what’s in the pan.

“Bud, I can’t give you this, it’ll make you sic—” He stops, moving the skillet in his hand to the back of the stove.

I’m waiting for him to speak again, but he just stands there staring me out. Eyes darting up and down my body. The longer he looks, the weightier my limbs become, the tighter that lasso pulls.

“I made dinner,” he finally says with an audible swallow. “Shit, no. I’m making dinner… not made… still making…fuck…” Auguste mutters the last curse as he spins back to the stove and I join him in the kitchen area.

The quiet is too much. Even with the rustle of his movements and the bubbling and sizzling from the cooking.

“Sooooo… you bakeandcook?” I croak.

He shrugs, wooden spoon in hand. “My mom has a thing about us knowing how to look after ourselves. She made sure we’d never go hungry. Taught us how to feed ourselves. Wash our clothes. Get ourselves home.”

My throat tightens at the fond way he’s smiling to himself as he talks about her. “Your mom sounds… amazing.” Like everything I wanted my mom to be—more invested in me, our relationship.

“She’s a badass.”

God, the way he says it. Like he adores her. Like he wants to be her proof.

“I wish I had that,” I admit quietly, the pit in my chest sinking deeper with the wet of my emotions burning behind my eyes.

Auguste looks at me—really looks. And something in his gaze makes me raw. Like he’s seeing all the way through me. Straight to that place that hurts. That envies him for this one thing.

“I hope you like curry,” he says. “I’ve made it mild so it doesn’t mess with your stomach… but it’ll warm you up just as well.”

My chest constricts. I clear my throat, blinking fast. “Smells incredible.”

A megawatt grin sucker punches the air from my lungs. He’s so pleased with himself that an unexpected sense of accomplishment warms through me. Like I did something good for him. Like my words might be enough gratitude for the man standing in the middle of the strange apartment, drawing in the walls so that they feel sturdier, safer, more like home.

“Sit,” Auguste orders, gesturing to the other side of the kitchen island with the breakfast bar overhang.

He watches me follow his instruction before going to the refrigerator and pulling out a clear bottle that he sets in front of me while he grabs a couple glasses.

“This is my childhood in a bottle. Frutee Cream Soda.” His green eyes are all lit up while he divides the bottle between our glasses. “It brings back the best memories of visiting my granny in Barbados with my siblings and our cousins.”

“How did you… where did you get it? All of this?” I ask, swilling the fizzy liquid around my glass. It smells sort of buttery and sweet—like cream soda, except there’s an added hint of caramelized sugar and tropical fruits.

Auguste takes a slow, savoring sip of his drink before he grins at me. “I know people.”

“You know people…?”

“Yeah, there’s this African-Caribbean store in town and they get certain things for me.”