Page 62 of Her Name in Red

I grab one of the plates, watching her face for any reaction.

“Stop me if you don't want something,” I say, but she just shrugs, a lazy roll of one bare shoulder.

I scoop a generous portion onto the plate, the tangle of noodles steaming in the cool air of her kitchen. No objection. Next comes the green curry, vibrant and aromatic, pooling at the edge of the plate. Spring rolls, crisp and golden, arranged in a neat row. The soup I can't pronounce ladles into a small bowl I find in her cabinet.

Handing her the plate she murmurs a quiet, “Thank you.”

She takes a bite of the pad Thai first, twirling the noodles around her fork with surprising delicacy. She’s literally humming as she eats. The humming continues as she moves from the noodles to the curry, a sound of pure contentment that makes my chest feel too tight for my lungs.

Piling my own food onto a plate, I lean back against the sink so I can eat and watch Maren.

Each time she swallows, her throat works in a way that's fucking hypnotic.

“This is good,” she admits between bites, gesturing at the spread with her fork. “Really good, actually.”

“Yeah?” I take a bite of my own food, barely registering the explosion of flavors. It really is fucking good.

She dips her spring roll in the sweet chili sauce, and when she bites into it, the crisp shell shatters slightly, and a drop of sauce clings to her lower lip. Without thinking, she licks it away, a quick dart of pink tongue that makes me want to suck it into my own mouth.

“Missed practice, didn't you?” She asks suddenly, her eyes flicking up to mine. There's no judgment in her voice.

But it’s proof she does keep track of my schedule.

“Some things are more important.” I shrug, trying for nonchalance and probably failing miserably.

Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth, those killer eyes narrowing slightly. “Hockey is your thing, Rhodes. Your ticket. Your future. Don't fuck it up.”

I shrug, shoving another forkful of curry into my mouth to buy time. Swallowing, I finally answer, “Yeah.”

“Your coach will be pissed.”

“Coach is always pissed. It's his default setting.”

She snorts at that, a small sound that's the closest thing to a laugh I've ever heard from her. “Fair point.”

There's something so fucking intimate about watching someone enjoy food, especially someone like Maren who seems to take so little pleasure in anything.

“You're staring,” she says without looking up.

“Can't help it.”

“Try harder.”

But there's no real heat behind her words. If anything, there's a hint of amusement.

I push off from the sink and move to stand across the counter from her, setting my plate down. Bracing my palms on the cool surface, I lean forward slightly, into her space. She doesn't back away.

“You know what I'm thinking right now?” I ask, voice low.

She raises an eyebrow, fork poised halfway to her mouth. “That you're going to be running suicides until you throw up everything you just ate.”

I laugh, low and soft. “Nah, that really wasn't on my mind.”

“No?” She takes another bite, chewing slowly, those eyes never leaving mine.

“I was thinking about this. Us. Doing this more often.”

Her fork freezes midway to her mouth. The tiny muscles in her jaw tighten, a barely perceptible change that I only notice because I've memorized every inch of her face like a man studying for salvation.