It had been ages since I just had fun. Flirting, teasing, and bantering with Killian had been easier than I had dared hope after the condition I had been in when he found me.

And when he paid for my groceries—that did something to the omega in me. I was far from needing to be taken care of financially, and I was certainly going to find a way to repay him without him knowing, but his desire to do so? What a turn on. He had all parts of me paying attention. All parts except my brain, because before I knew it, I was inviting him to come up into my space, a place that no one had seen other than the movers, a couple of maintenance and delivery people, and the nosey old lady down the hall.

“Thanks. You can leave them here,” I offered as we reached the door.

The bags stayed in his arms—all of them. He had insisted on carrying them, and damn if I didn’t find that sexy.

“I’ll just bring them in for you.”

I opened the door, holding it until he walked past before following him. If my eyes fell to his derrière, what could I do? It was yummy.

“The table is fine.” I turned on the kitchen light before pulling out my Instapot and colander. “Pass me the chickpeas?”

“Um, sure.”

I had caught him off guard, but he quickly recovered, tossing them my way.

I worked quickly, rinsing them and setting them to cook. They were the most time intensive part of the recipe, and while it was easier to buy a can, they tasted so much better without the added salt, the extra few minutes was worth it.

If my mother only saw me like this, she’d probably pass out. She was of the mindset that household duties should all go to the hired help. It was one of the first things I did after I left: learn to cook. I could have lived on take-away, but who would want to? And cooking came with the added bonus of strengthening my ability to be a good omega.

Killian unbagged my groceries onto the table, organizing them by food group. It was particularly adorable.

“Thanks. Those take the longest,” I explained as I took the ingredients for dinner and put them on the counter before putting the few other items away.

“I never knew anyone who could do that.” Killian stared at me as I was opening a package of chicken thighs.

“Do what?” I knew he couldn’t be talking about my chicken package opening skills.

I needed to get the thighs deboned and chopped to make the dish cook faster. When I had a lazy day to let it simmer, I preferred to use them whole—the fat from the skin added a layer of flavor this dish would be lacking—but it was probably best to move things along since there was an alpha in my apartment.

I took a second to ponder that. I had an alpha in my space, a maple scented, sex on a stick alpha at that, and I wasn’t scared or even uncomfortable. It was just nice, being here with him, showing off my mad skills. Sure, I was still flirting, swishing my hips as I walked and adding innuendo wherever I could, but there was some real me here too. For some reason, that felt important to me. Huge, even. That’s what he said, I snickered to myself.

“Make chickpeas from scratch.”

“Well, it’s kind of difficult to make them from scratch. They grow much better on… whatever it is they grow on.” I flushed at my failed snark. “But really, it’s the same thing as making black-eyed peas or kidney beans.” I pulled out my first thigh and made quick work of it.

“Where I grew up, those came from a can, too.”

I grew up with chefs, so all things were made to perfection. Shit, I never had a store bought dessert until my first year at school when Johnny Jones brought in store bought cupcakes with little Power Ranger rings on them. They were amazing.

“You can really cook. Did you get that from your mom?”

I ignored his question, focusing on my chicken instead. I not only didn’t want to go there, I didn’t want to lie. Not to Killian, for some reason. That didn’t mean I was ready to spill the whole truth about who I was… and along with that, what I was worth fiscally. That knowledge changed how people treated me, and generally not in the best ways.

Killian filled the silence. “My mama tried to teach me to cook, but my skillset is limited to things with directions on the box, I’m afraid. That, and scrambled eggs. I make a mean scrambled egg.”

My naughty mind went straight to the ways that would lead me to getting to partake of said eggs. I needed not to go there. It would only lead to badness and disappointment.

“I watch a lot of Food Network and took a class at the community center.” And by a lot, I meant it was the only channel I ever watched. “I also joined far too many Instapot groups on Facebook. I’m pretty addicted to cooking with it now.”

“An Instapot?” Killian was squinting as if he were thinking hard about what I could be referring to. Damn, could he be any more adorable. Not that I’d call him that to his face. Big, strong, sexy alphas shied away from the compliments of cute and adorable, even when the descriptors were accurate.

“Yeah, that thing I put the beans in.” I pointed with my knife before heading to the sink to wash my hands and grab the tomato knife. “It’s basically an electric pressure cooker which means I can cook good meals when I get home from work without wasting hours. And it makes yogurt.” Or more accurately… my second Instapot did, because who wanted their yogurt to pick up even the most subtle hint of the flavors and aromas from previously cooked foods? Not I, said the little sexy omega.

“You make yogurt?” His mouth fell open as I began to make short work of the tomatoes.

“Don’t look so surprised. I’m more than just a pretty face.”

“So I am learning, Blondie. So I am learning.”

I let the nickname go, not showing him how much I liked it. I grabbed a few spices and my good fry pan as well as a large sauce pan and lid. I looked at my timer. If I started the water and chicken now, the chickpeas could be done just in time. Not as good as slow cooked all day, but it was going to be amazing.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Inviting him directly would’ve been too hard. How was it I could talk to this man about the phallic nature of produce, but not offer him a meal?

“Are you asking me to stay?” He seemed to see straight through me, and his challenge made me freeze for a second before answering.

“I guess I am. It will be good. I promise.” I’d already heated the oil and dropped the chicken in the pan, sprinkling it with all of my favorite spices. It smelled amazing.

“My dinners this week have consisted of value meals five, seven, and the brand-new number eight. If you served me that cucumber with a side of those chickpeas, you’d already have won the competition for best dinner of the week.”

“Low bar. Excellent.” I winked before going back to the task at hand, flipping the chicken so all of the sides got a bit of browned goodness. My favorite way to make this stew was with lamb, but the local grocery store rarely had any, so chicken had to suffice. “Takes the pressure off. You won’t be telling me about my overuse of garlic or undercooked orzo, which will be a thing, because I prefer my orzo not mushy.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” He smiled, a smile that reached his eyes. Nice. “Need me to chop anything?” He hesitated on the word chop and I conjectured he threw that out there as the only skill he could offer. He probably was a better cook than he gave himself credit for. Most people were, they just didn’t realize their potential. I knew this firsthand. My days watching Fatima in the kitchen taught me far more than I realized before I took my first official cooking class.

“Naw.” A flash of disappointment crossed his eyes so I added, “But you can set the table, Killer.”

“Deal.” He almost added something else, I could see it on his face. Instead, he shook it off and went about setting the table.