Say You Swear
: Chapter 17

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

Noah grins, glancing over as he stirs. “What do you want to know?”

“Your secrets.” I pause for dramatic effect. “‘Cause there’s no way you whipped up this sauce in the half hour it took me to drop my stuff off and get here.”

“You’re right.” He nods, setting the long wooden spoon down smack dab on the counter. “I didn’t,” he admits as I reach past him, lift said spoon, and set it back down on a paper plate. “I made it in ten.”

My head snaps his way. “I’m sorry, what?”

He smirks and begins walking backward into the living room, so just as he wants me to, I follow.

“Okay, Gordon Ramsay.” I set our drinks on the tabletop, and we lower into the spots we’ve come accustomed to eating in the last couple Mondays. “Tell me how.”

“Sorry, can’t do that.” He shakes his head, no longer waiting for me to serve myself, but rather portions it out for me.

I reach out and scoot an extra piece of chicken onto my plate. “And why not?”

Noah’s eyes glide my way, and he smirks. “Only way to learn is to do it with me.”

“That sounds a lot like coercion.”

He lifts a dark brow. “Did it take coercion to get you here tonight?”

I stick my food-covered tongue out and Noah shakes his head and laughs.

After a few bites and tuning into the scene in Superbad where McLovin first gets his fake ID, I turn to Noah. “So, do I get to pick the menu?”

“Only if you take turns doing the cooking.”

“Yeah, sure, if you want a Top Ramen night with a side of Takis.”

“I happen to like ramen.”

“Big fat liar.”

“Nope.”

“How could a guy who can cook like this possibly like Top Ramen?”

“You ever dress up your noodles? Little lime, some Tapatio and cilantro?”

I gape at him, and he chuckles, adding, “How about with a boiled egg, soy sauce, and siracha?”

I blink dramatically, and he tosses his napkin at me.

“Okay, you win.” I accept defeat. “You’re on menu, but we need a noodle night in there somewhere. I want to learn all about this from poor to polished ramen stuff.”

Noah nods. “I want to teach you.”

“Good.” I jerk my chin, and he beams. “Let’s start Sunday?”

When he frowns, I quickly add, “Or, I mean, whenever you have time. You know, after the season maybe.”

Stop talking, Ari.

“I don’t want to wait until after the season, Juliet.” Noah tries to hide his amusement as he looks my way. “I can’t on Sundays, that’s all.”

Because you and the ballerina are both busy that day…

That thought has a frown threatening to creep over my face, but I manage to hold it in.

“How about we make these Mondays official and add Wednesdays?” he asks. “Those are the easiest for me, since I have morning practice, and my classes are done before lunch. What about you?”

“Yes.”

He looks to me and I shake my head, clamping my eyes closed a moment. “I mean, same.” No, wait. I twist toward him a bit. “No, not same. I don’t have practice, obviously, but yes, those days are good for me too.”

Noah drops his grin, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.

Thankfully, I manage not to ramble on the rest of the evening, and when Noah walks me home, the short trip is full of jokes and laughter.

The next morning, I wake the next morning to replace a text of our ‘proposed’ menu. So to make it official, I add our plans to my calendar, and search for him on Venmo. He said he would hit the store, so I send him a small chunk of my monthly food budget.

Noah sent it right back.

It’s Wednesday, we’re about done with the first meal, so I sneak away to the bathroom, and stuff forty bucks into the front zipper of his backpack. I’m back in the kitchen before he has a moment to get suspicious.

Noah lifts the spoon to his mouth, where my attention is stuck as he blows on the hot mixture. Once satisfied it won’t burn my mouth, he brings the spoonful toward me. “Taste this.”

His eyes, they’re so unlike a shade of blue I’ve seen before. So mythical and bright, yet stormy, like what you’d expect the replace on the god of the sea. A little lost and lonely maybe. A hint of wild. It’s intriguing, the color. Or maybe it’s the emotion I can read within them.

How can I read the emotion within them?

“Juliet?”

I blink, dropping my pinched gaze to the spoon.

“Sorry,” I mumble, closing my lips around it.

The savory glaze concocted of homemade chili with cranberry hits my tastebuds, the explosiveness of the flavors pulling a satisfactory moan from me.

“So good.” I leave the sauce to sit on my tongue a moment. “You know, if the whole going pro thing doesn’t work out for you, you could totally be a chef.”

I hadn’t realized I closed my eyes, and when I look to Noah, he tears his from my mouth.

He quickly turns to the sink, dropping the spoon inside. “You think it’s good like that or does it need more crushed red peppers?”

When I don’t respond, he looks over, meeting my frown.

“The little pepper flakes…”

“…like pizza peppers?”

He grins and turns to lean his tailbone against the small countertop. “Were you paying attention when we put in the spices?”

To the food? No. To the focus and peacefulness that takes you over when you cook? Yes. Yes, I was.

“No?”

He laughs, playfully hitting me with the dishtowel.

I pop a shoulder. “I figured my job was to hand you stuff and give you honest opinions on taste.”

“Uh-huh, and how are you supposed to make it on your own if you do that?” he teases.

“Okay, wow. If I gave you the impression that would be a possibility, I am so sorry.” I grin, a laugh slipping through. “Basically, I’m going to need you and your black jacket worthy skills to survive away from home.”

I expected him to laugh or joke back, but he doesn’t.

Noah’s gaze floats across my face, and he gives a nearly undetectable nod. “I think that could work out.”

I don’t know, why but heat slowly spreads up my neck.

He sees it and rather than turning around and pretending he hasn’t, he follows the warmth past my collarbone. I should look away, but I don’t want to. I want to watch him watch me. When his midnight eyes land on mine, something low in my gut twists. It tangles and pulls and I whip around to face the counter. I move the bag with the chili ingredients in it to the side, setting the one full of stuff to make pot pie in its place.

My limbs are heavy, fuzzy, but I breathe through it, swallowing beyond the knot in my throat.

“I swear to god, Noah, if this pot pie tastes good, there will be no freezing of anything. I’ll be eating it all tonight, no joke.”

Noah’s laugh is low and sultry.

Or I’m losing my mind and need to get a grip, I can’t be sure.

He takes the hot pot of chili to the tiny table covered in potholders, setting it down beside the tray of meatballs. “We’re not making one big one. We can’t freeze it like that. We have to make a few small ones.”

“K, let’s do that… but also make a big one we can eat tonight?” I smile like a psycho, showing all my teeth. “We can veg out until my leggings are too tight.”

He looks at me over his shoulder. “You want to hang tonight?”

My eyes bulge. “Oh my gosh! I… totally invited myself to stay.” I avert my gaze. “Ignore me, keep going. What do I do next? Set the oven temp, right? That’s step one?”

“Juliet.”

My muscles tense the slightest bit. “Yeah?” I line up the ingredients, no clue what order they should be in, or if it even matters.

“You’re my only plans,” he shares.

I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly nervous.

Noah senses it, chuckling as he comes to stand beside me, calling my gaze to his. He lifts his hand, as if he was about to reach out and touch me but decides better of it, quickly lowering it to the bag beside us. His eyes, though, they stay on mine. “You wanna stay, veg until your leggings are too tight and I’ve gotta loan you a pair of sweats?” His mouth hooks higher. “Watch a movie with me?”

“Yeah.” My brows pull. “I do.”

He nods several times before blowing out a breath and turning to the sink to rinse the chicken. Who knew that was a thing?

The pot pies take the longest out of all the meals we made today, if you count the baking time. Once the big one is ready to be cut into, Noah grabs plates, but I put them back, stuff two forks into my hoodie pocket, and carry the entire pie into the living room.

We eat straight out of the throwaway tinfoil tray, watching Bad Boys For Life in comfortable silence.

At some point during the movie, I shift closer to Noah. My shoulder is now pressed to his, my bent knees resting against his thick, football player thighs.

When I tuck my hands into my lap, he reaches behind us, grabbing a blanket. He drapes it over my legs without a word, leaving his arm to rest along the back of the couch.

I sink in a little more as he settles into the cushions.

When a low sigh escapes him, my mind begins to wander.

I watched him closely tonight. The peaceful look on his face, the ease of his movements, it’s so obvious he’s at home when cooking, as if it’s second nature for him. It reminded me of being at home, watching my parents in the kitchen.

He kind of reminds me of home.

And that… is kind of scary.