Page 49 of What We Break
He grunts, leaning against the doorframe. "And?"
"She wants to cook dinner at our place instead of going to a restaurant."
Blake raises an eyebrow. "So?"
"I had reservations at the French place."
"Christ, Reid. You planning to propose?" He drops into the chair across from me. "Get down on one knee between the snails and whatever the fuck else they serve there?"
I flip him off. "I wanted to show her I'm serious about this. That I want to spend real time with her. I’m not fucking around."
"And you think she gives a shit about overpriced French food?" Blake shakes his head. "The woman volunteered at a homeless camp on your second date. She suggested cooking instead of getting dressed up. Pretty sure she's not impressed by that sommelier bullshit."
He's got a point. A really annoying, accurate point.
"Besides," Blake continues, "she wants to come here. To our house. That's not casual."
I hadn't thought about it that way. Laine wanting to see my space, my kitchen, my life. Maybe this isn't about keeping things casual—maybe it's about getting more real.
"What if she takes one look at the mess and leaves?" I ask. Yeah, we've made a ton of progress on this place, but it's still a work in progress. We tackled things as they bugged us, or as we found deals, so every room has some upgrades mixed with original. The living room has refinished hardwood and a brand-new ceiling fan, but the trim is still unpainted. The kitchen has gorgeous cabinets and a stonecountertop but the floor is still the 70's lino. It looks... eclectic. That's the nice word for it.
Ugly as fuck would be the other way to put it.
"Then she's not worth the fucking headache." Blake takes a sip of his coffee. "But she won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because she already likes you, and you're a bigger disaster than this house."
"Thanks, asshole."
"Anytime."
Saturday afternoon, I'm cleaning the house like we're expecting a visit from the health department. I've vacuumed twice, dusted everything including the ceiling fan blades, organized the books on the coffee table by size (then by color, then back to size), and scrubbed the kitchen until it gleams. I've cleaned the bathroom three times. I've fluffed pillows I didn't know we owned.
Blake finds me reorganizing the spice rack for the second time.
"Oregano before paprika," I mutter, swapping jars. "That's just common sense."
How did I not realize I organize when I'm anxious? I can't fucking stop.
"She's a nurse," he says, leaning against the counter. "She's seen actual shit. Human shit. She's not gonna lose her mind over your spice rack."
"I want everything to be perfect."
"It's dinner, not a fucking inspection."
"But it should be perfectbeforeshe makes a mess."
Blake stares at me. "Do you hear yourself right now?"
He's right, but I can't help myself. This feels important in a way that's hard to explain. I've never had a woman cook in my kitchen before. Okay. She who shall not be named cooked in the apartment. But this is different. This house is our sanctuary and I've never wanted to share this space with anyone except Blake.
"What if I don't have the right ingredients?" I ask.
"Then go to the store."
"What if she doesn't like our wine?"
