I shouldn't drink the beer so fast. I haven't had much to eat today and the label on the bottle says it's pretty high in alcohol content.

Damn if this guy doesn't make me crazy though.

Of course his name is "Stryker," like some sort of action hero or something. He couldn't be named Marvin or Norwood or something? Like his parents gave him a ridiculous hot name and he just felt compelled to grow into it.

And, oh man, did he grow into it.

The kitchen is built in a U-shape with the stove and range on one side where Stryker is standing, diligently whipping up something that looks a lot more impressive than spaghetti and sauce from a jar.

It's warm in here with 3 out of 4 of the burners going under pots that are billowing steam into the room. I was liking standing close to him-- way too close to him. I tell myself it's because of the warmth of the stove and the smells of a home cooked meal being prepared but I'm not being entirely honest with myself.

I lean against the kitchen counter near the sink and take another swig of the dark brew and enjoy the way it goes straight to my head. Or maybe it's Stryker.

No. It's the beer. I can tell because suddenly I'm feeling a lot less nervous to be so close to him and I've managed to scoot back to his side.

There's plenty of warmth coming from the cooking, but there's a heat radiating off of him that's entirely different.

I take a step closer, leaning in to inhale the aroma of the sauce simmering in a pot on the back burner, using it as an excuse to get a little closer to him.

"Whoa!"

I think it's the first time I've heard him sound really relaxed, like the low laugh that accompanies his exclamation is really because he's amused and not because he's nervous or sarcastic or just being a jerk.

But it's his hand landing on my hip that makes me lose my balance.

I wasn't expecting that.

"Back up a little before you fall in." With one arm behind my back, his hand wraps around my hip and it's the first time I realize how much bigger than me he really is.

"I was just sniffing." I look up him as his other hand catches me gently by the upper arm and leans me back from the edge of the stove.

I want it to come out just as snarky as everything else I tell him. I don't want him getting the idea that he's in charge of me or anything.

He might be hot as hell to look at and I wouldn't mind making it worth the delay in getting back home, but it's not like he's my hero or anything. I'm not looking for happily ever after and I'm sure as hell not some damsel in distress that needs to be rescued from anything.

Maybe it's the beer. Yeah, definitely the beer, I decide as I hear my voice come out all breathy and stupid sounding like I'm waiting for him to kiss me or something.

For a second I think he's going to. I stand still, taking in the feel of his hands on me, the heat where he's making contact with my body, while the expression on his face changes from smiling down at me to something softer.

"Here."

He let's go. Both hands fall away from me at once and it leaves me more than unsteady. I feel abandoned and the places where he was touching me go cold.

Mostly, there's a crashing feeling inside me that feels utterly devastated as he pushes me just slightly to the side while he takes the long wooden spoon he's been using to stir the sauce with and uses it dish a small amount into a bowl.

"Taste it," he says as he hands me the dish and a spoon from a drawer, "let me know if it needs anything."

I dip the spoon into the red sauce and blow gently across the surface so I don't burn my tongue. The sauce is chunky with big pieces of tomatoes and onions and it reminds me of the way my grandmother cooked when I was little.

"It's good," I tell him when I taste it.

"You sound surprised," he says with a laugh as he watches me finish the small amount he gave me to taste.

Do I? I set the dish and the spoon on the counter and watch him add something else to the bubbling sauce and then toss a handful of pasta into the pot of boiling water next to it.

I guess I am a little surprised. It's one thing to get out of the shower and find him making an actual meal, it's another to discover he's doing it from scratch. It doesn't go together with his looks.

"You just don't really look like the kinda guy that does a lot of cooking," I tell him.

"Well I don't really have a reason to do much cooking," he tells me. I swear he's humming lightly as he puts his attention into the meal. It's a light sound that's almost, but not quite, hidden by the noise of the exhaust fan over the stove but there's an unmistakable melody that can't be blamed on the fan.

It makes me smile.

The man is huge. He towers over my 5 foot 4 frame by nearly a full foot. He's wearing a t-shirt that fits snugly over his chest and a pair of pajamas pants similar to the ones he loaned me that hang low on his hips in a way that dares me to pull the drawstring at his waist.

Everything about the guy is pure muscle, masculinity, and sex appeal.

But he's also a dude living above a store in the middle of nowhere in an apartment that assures me that he's been single for as long as he's been living here.

I mean, really, the place is all wood paneling and green shag carpet that's got to be older than either of us. There's a huge flat screen TV sitting on a wooden crate on one side of the living room and a leather sofa with duct tape patches against the other wall.

And I've seen inside his refrigerator; it's all beer. OK, not all beer. There's also a block of cheese that shouldn't be that color-- or that fuzzy, 2 bottles of ketchup-- maybe he forgot he had one already? Or maybe condiments get lonely? I don't know. And a whole watermelon.

I have no idea where he found all the ingredients to make the meal that I can't wait to eat right now.

"Oh." I realize he means me, I'm his reason for putting this all together. "Thanks," I say, "I've been living off of fast food burgers and gas station burritos for the last 3 weeks. This is amazing."

He smiles as he reaches into a cabinet over my head and pulls out a couple of plates. I like seeing him smile, I'll have to see if I can make it happen more often.

The tipsy feeling from drinking the beer too fast has long since faded. I'm going to have to admit it's him.