Page 60 of Tommy
I pull the plug and let the water drop down past my shoulders before moving to rise. I step out of the tub easily enough, surprised that pain doesn’t rack my body from moving like it did after the attack at my apartment. But with the last one, I lay on the cold, unforgiving floor for hours as I cried about everything. This time I was in the hot bath almost immediately after. I never knew how much a hot bath could help until now.
I towel off and dress quickly, taking a full ten seconds to smell his shirt before putting it on. There’s a scent that’s him, spice and something darker I can’t quite place. I can’t identify it, but I also can’t stop wishing I could bottle it for my own personal use. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.
My hair is just damp on the ends, not enough to need a blow-dry, but I don’t want to get the shirt wet. I twist it into a lazy top bun and secure it with the same hair tie he took out earlier.
I hang the towel up on the rack, next to his, and ignore the flutter of being in his bathroom as I exit. I expect to find him in his room, but it’s dark. The hall light illuminates the way out, which I follow as it leads me to the sounds coming from the kitchen.
The sight stops me in my tracks.
“You cook?”
He looks up from whisking something in a bowl with a smirk before setting it down and cutting something up on the other side of it.
“When it calls for it.”
“When what calls for it?”
I move closer to him, feeling a pull toward him as I take a seat at one of the counter chairs and just watch as he continues to cook on the stovetop between us.
“When a home-cooked meal is exactly what the doctor ordered.”
His smile is infectious, and I match his energy just a little.
“And the doctor called for omelets?”
He shrugs. “Essentially, he said to take pain medication with food. No specification. But it’s my mama who always told me that nothing helps medication go down better than a home-cooked meal.”
I watch as he pours the eggs into a pan before tilting his head and looking off to the side as if in deep thought.
“Actually, she specifically said ‘herhome cooking,’ but it’s too late to go over there. So omelets it is.” He tosses in the cut ham and onions with some cheese. “That and I haven’t been grocery shopping in a while, so this is all I have.”
I shrug as I put my hands between my knees. “All I know how to make is ramen, so this is gourmet to me.”
I meant to keep it light, but he frowns anyway.
“We’ll have to correct that too.”
Too? What else is he planning on correcting? And why do I like that so much? That he wants to help me learn something new. Things I can do on my own. Without him. Even if the sudden thought makes me almost not want to eat for fear of throwing up.
“And voilà. Home-cooked food with a side of pills.” He hands over the omelet on a plate after putting two pills on it, along with a glass of orange juice.
I take a moment to just appreciate the hell out of this. I can’t recall the last time I felt so taken care of. When I was younger, I know my parents must have cooked for me or something. When I got into dance school, the food was cafeteria-style. Cooked for you, but you picked it. No personal touch involved, just what was needed. And when I saw my parents, well, they were so busy with work that they spent more time ordering takeout or eating out at restaurants in places between their home and dance school.
“Eat.” He pushes the omelet toward me with a warm smile as he makes another for himself.
Somehow, seeing that he’s making his own omelet makes this even better. Sharing a meal with him shouldn’t make me feel special, but it does. Hell, everything he does makes me feel special.
By the time Tommy plates his food, his phone is buzzing continuously. He apologizes for it, which confuses me. It’s not like this is a date or anything. He has a business to run, and this is the second time I’ve taken him away from the job.
Honestly, I’m more surprised that he’s putting up with me. I’m nothing but a problem. Not only for his work, but I seem to keep getting into situations. Sure, none of them are my fault beyond that I’m a woman, and that seems to be the only catalyst that I can find in all of this, but still.
“Fuck. I’ve got to take this.” He picks up his phone and answers it as he puts his plate in the sink and walks down the hall, past his bedroom and into another room, shutting the door behind him.
Not wanting to be even more of a problem, I take the time to clean up the kitchen. It takes little work, and despitewhat my past career attempts showed me, I can figure out how to clean up after myself.
Once that’s done, I go to the room I was in before. But I don’t stay. I don’t want to sleep. I know if I close my eyes and let my mind drift, it’ll go someplace I don’t want it to go.
Instead, I grab my phone and the sweater I borrowed from him earlier, pulling it on as I sink into his couch. I play a game on my phone, but it doesn’t hold my attention. Besides, my phone is the cheapest out there. A pay-to-play type, and the games aren’t anything beyond following a snake around the screen and trying not to die.
