The Shifter Romances The Writer
“I hope so.”
He put his phone on the coffee table. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “But my head’s not in it.”
Something did seem a little odd with her, but if Thomas had done something else, she’d have told him. “So what do you want to do?”
“I’m going to fix an early dinner, then maybe you want to watch a movie with me? You’ve got time before it gets dark, and I’m so behind on new releases that I’d be happy to watch just about anything. You game?”
To spend more time with her? Absolutely. “Sure. But I didn’t intend to distract you from your work or for you to have to feed me.”
“You’re not distracting me.” She laughed as she headed for the kitchen. “And I love how you think that dinner’s for you.”
He grinned at her teasing. “Hey, if you don’t want to share, that’s fine. I’ll just keep the flan to myself.”
She stopped and turned around to look at him. “What flan?”
“The flan I made a couple days ago. I brought it over in my bag and stuck it in your fridge. Shame to let it go to waste.”
She went in and opened the fridge. “Wow, you really did bring flan.” She glanced over at him. “You made this?”
“What? You think a guy can’t cook?”
She pulled a few things out, then shut the fridge door. “Cook, sure, but flan is sort of…I don’t know, that’s not beginner stuff.”
He got off the couch and joined her in the kitchen. “My mother wanted my brother and me to know how to feed ourselves. I took to it more than he did.”
“Clearly.”
He leaned on the counter. “So what’s for dinner?”
“Shrimp scampi. You cool with that?”
“Oh, yeah. I love seafood. Can I help?”
She hesitated. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
A few minutes later he had a chef’s knife in his hand and tasks assigned. He started chopping the garlic and shallots first, reserving the parsley for last since it was more of a garnish. He loved cooking, he loved hanging out with Roxy and he couldn’t think of a time he’d been happier. If not for the shadow of her ex hanging over them, the evening would have been perfect. “You sure you don’t want me to devein the shrimp too?”
“Nope.” She filled a big pot with water for the pasta. “I have to do something or you’ll basically be making dinner by yourself.”
He smiled as he worked. “I’d be okay with that. You could go get some writing done if you want. I can call you when it’s ready.”
She put the pot on the stove, then sidled up to him. Her hip against his. “Are you trying to kick me out of my own kitchen?”
He let the knife rest to answer her. “Not at all. Just trying to give you some time to work if you want it.” The urge to kiss her rose up within him. She was only inches away. He could just lean down and—he took a breath and forced the thought away. “I mean, my mother is waiting for that book.”
She laughed.
Then he quickly added. “But I also think she could learn some patience. So…stay.”
Her smile softened and the look in her eyes went oddly unreadable. She pivoted away, leaving him to wonder what he’d said that had changed the mood so suddenly. “I should make a salad.”
“Only if you want it.”
“Yeah, I remember. The Cruz men don’t eat salad.”
He turned as she went back to the fridge. He couldn’t let go of the thought that he’d upset her. “What just happened? We were having a nice moment, then I asked you to stay. Was that too forward of me? Tell me, because I don’t understand it and I want to.”
She straightened, a head of lettuce in her hands, but she didn’t look at him. “I like you, Alex. A lot. You’re so different from what I’ve been used to for so long. I had no idea how much that difference could mean to me. But…”
She shut the fridge, walked to the counter next to him and put the lettuce down. She stared at it for a long time without saying anything.
He went back to chopping shallots, slowly this time, letting her have all the space she needed. Something was obviously weighing on her thoughts. Whether she shared what it was or not was up to her.
“I think I’m losing my mind,” she whispered.
He almost laughed, thinking she was making a joke, but the seriousness of her tone stopped him. He quit chopping. “What makes you think that?”
She laughed nervously and started unwrapping the lettuce. “Creative types are prone to mental stress more than most people, I think. Depression especially. And my mom had some issues with schizophrenia. And I guess that’s what’s starting to happen to me. I’m just…losing my grip on reality a bit.”
“But what, specifically, makes you think that?”
“I’ve been seeing some things—”
He released the knife to cup her face and gaze into her eyes. He hoped the truth of what he couldn’t say came through. “You are not losing your mind, Roxy. I swear you’re not. Trust me on this.”
His heart ached for what she was going through. She must have stopped drinking the town water and was getting glimpses of the local supernaturals again. He wished he could tell her the truth, but he’d promised Delaney he wouldn’t. Damn it. He needed to tell Delaney that the time for keeping secrets was over, no matter what she thought Roxy could or couldn’t handle.