Page 9 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

What first drew me to him was how we could talk for hours without him making me feel foolish or small for my bookish tendencies.

Of course, I haven’t mentioned my love of romance novels.

I can’t imagine Bryan understanding my dedication to happily-ever-afters and the spicy bits.

But he still makes me feel seen in a way I never experienced before.

I want to believe this intellectual connection could be the basis for something more.

I study the page for a few minutes but find it hard to concentrate.

I’ve just opened the freezer to pull out a pizza when someone knocks on my door.

I’m guessing it’s Mrs. Simon from downstairs.

At least once a week, she takes pity on my lack of culinary skills and drops off some food—usually something bland and oversalted.

Still, frozen pizza isn’t exactly Michelin-star cuisine, and I won’t have to wait for the oven to preheat if it’s her.

Spoiler alert: it’s not.

Eric stands on the other side of the door, balancing a plate of food in each hand. The lasagna looks amazing with a golden top of melted cheese and creamy sauce oozing from the edges. I bet it isn’t bland or oversalted. There’s also a Caesar salad and two pieces of crusty Italian bread.

Not going to lie, my mouth starts watering. I’d like to give the food all the credit, but at least some of my reaction has to do with the man himself.

His hair is now shower-damp, and he’s changed from running gear to a pair of low-slung jeans and a cream-colored Henley that’s thin enough to reveal the contour of muscles across his chest.

Athletes aren’t my type, I mentally remind myself. Then I duck as my hormones reach out to bitch slap me .

I grew up listening to the stories and jokes my brother and his friends told about women, which weren’t affirming or respectful by a long shot.

They were enough to turn me off from anyone even associated with sports.

And even though she’s ten years older than me, I remember my sister getting her heart broken by the football captain in high school.

Elise was one of the most popular girls in her class and an exceptional athlete in her own right.

Plus, she’s tough as nails. If a boy was dumb enough to hurt Elise, I knew I didn’t stand a chance with that type.

Of course, Eric hasn’t asked me out. But here he is, standing at my door with the most delicious home-cooked meal I’ve seen since my mother died.

“Do you have a concussion?” he asks softly.

I blink up at him. “What?”

“I’m at your door with dinner and you’re staring at me like there aren’t a lot of circuits firing up there.” He indicates my head.

“You brought two plates of food,” I point out. “Should I be offended you assume I eat that much?”

“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass how much you eat.” He looks genuinely baffled, which almost makes me smile. “I brought one plate for you. The other’s for me.”

Before I can respond, he elbows past me into my apartment.

“Hey, I didn’t invite you in.”

“You’re concussed.”

“I’m not concussed.”

I let the door swing shut and follow him toward the small kitchen. “Where’s Rhett?”

“In his room with the door shut. I told him we’d eat after I showered. He managed to finish the meal, load his dishes in the dishwasher, and grab a cookie before I came out.”

I perk up. “There are cookies?”

He grins. “You want my cookies, sweetheart?”

I trip over a non-existent something on the floor and nearly yard-sale onto the hardwood floor. Somehow, Eric manages to place the plates on the table, spin around, and catch me before I fall. Damn, that’s both annoying and hot. Annoyingly hot.

“I don’t want your cookies,” I tell him, extricating myself from his grasp. My body’s all like… girl, what’s the hurry ? “But I wouldn’t say no to a cookie.”

“You have to eat your vegetables first,” he teases.

“So now we’re eating together? You and me?” I don’t bother to mask my incredulous tone.

He looks more serious than I expect. “I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“That sounds serious.” I take a step away and try to ignore the fact that he smells even better freshly showered than he did Sunday night at the bar.

Grabbing two forks from a drawer and a wad of paper napkins, I move to take a seat at the table.

I don’t like him, I remind myself. And I don’t want to spend time with him.

I also don’t want to eat frozen pizza. Besides, there’s something about being alone on a Friday night that always feels particularly pathetic to me. I should be used to it, but still…

I take a bite of bread and suppress a groan. Damn, that’s good. “If you want Rhett to go to practice tomorrow, it’s fine. I know Toby wants him there.”

“How do you know?” He lowers that big, muscular, clean-as-a-whistle body into the chair across from me.

“He texted and told me I was being a jackass for making him volunteer.”

“Your brother called you a jackass?” One thick brow raises.

“No, but it was implied.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I want to talk to you about. Let’s eat first. I’m starving, and lasagna is better warm.”

“Most things are better warm,” I mutter, and his eyes flash. “Not those kinds of things. Food things,” I clarify quickly, then add, “Not popsicles because they’ll melt. ”

“I like popsicles and finding creative ways to make them melt,” he says with a wink.

Melting. Well, that’s relatable.

Toby has already reminded both of us that manwhore-with-a-heart is not my type. But this isn’t the Eric I remember. The one whose cockiness made me want to disappear into the nearest bookshelf.

I bite into the lasagna, and for the first time, truly understand the concept of a food orgasm.

“Oh my God, where did you learn to cook? Is this your signature dish? Is it some version of marry-me chicken?” I realize I’m talking around a mouthful of food and concentrate on chewing.

He’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I’ve never asked anyone to marry me, with or without chicken.”

I swallow back a laugh. “It’s a recipe that went viral a couple of years ago because it’s so good it will make someone want to marry you for it.”

“Not familiar,” he says with a shrug.

I take another bite and try not to think about what it would take for Eric Anderson to get down on one knee for a woman. None of my concern. Zero. Zip. Nada.

“Your lasagna could go viral.”

“You like it that much?” He looks almost uncertain as he asks the question.

“It’s stupid good.” I point my fork at him. “You didn’t answer the question about where you learned to cook.”

“I got sidetracked when you started talking about marriage,” he says with a small smile.

I blend into the background of most situations, and that’s always been fine with me. Yet here in my apartment with Eric, I feel decidedly chatty. I’m about to offer another teasing remark, but I keep my mouth shut because I want to know where this recipe and his skill in the kitchen comes from .

The number of ways Eric Anderson surprises me is growing by the second.

“I stayed with a teammate’s family in Italy one summer during the off-season. His mom, sister, and aunts spent a lot of time in the kitchen,” he explains.

“And your friend?”

“He has old-school views about who belongs in the kitchen, so he and his brothers stayed far away. But I asked the women to teach me.”

“You wanted to learn?”

“Cooking’s a skill, just like skating and shooting a puck.”

“Maybe that explains why I stick to cereal.”

He laughs. “Then having me as your neighbor will be good for something.”

“Don’t count on it.” I take another bite and tamp down another groan. Damn, he might be right.