“What the hell happened in here?” I ask, taking in the destruction in front of me.
The kitchen looks nothing short of a culinary war zone. The counter on either side of the stove is covered in debris. There are pots and knives in the sink and spaghetti sauce sticking an empty box of garlic bread to the kitchen island. A bundle of carrots leans untouched against a bag of onions, and all I can think of is that I hope she has a Janey.
“I told you,” she says. “I cooked.”
“No, I think you said you tried to cook, and now I understand why you chose those specific words.”
She scoffs as she grabs a lid off the counter. “Fine. Then I’ll keep my house … warming? Breaking? Gift to myself.”
I join her at the stove. “Let me get this straight. You made me dinner as a house-breaking gift?”
She snaps the lid on a giant bowl of pasta. “I did.”
I look around once again. It must’ve taken her a while to make such a mess. And, although it’s a giant disaster, a lot of thought had to have gone into this.
For me.
And that’s pretty damn sweet.
“That was awfully nice of you,” I say, leaning against the counter.
She looks down. A strand of hair falls into her face. She doesn’t look up, but I can tell she appreciates the comment.
“It might not be fit to eat,” she says. “I’m not the greatest cook.”
“It’s the thought that counts, right?”
“Right.”
She takes a plastic bag out of a drawer. I move to get a better view of what she’s doing when my back suddenly feels damp. I pull away from the counter and notice that I’ve leaned against something wet.
“Here.” She tosses me a kitchen towel.
I grab it out of the air and press it against the spot on the small of my back. “You didn’t have to do all of this, you know.”
“I know.” She sits the bag down by the garlic bread. “But when someone does something nice for you, you should do something nice back.”
“Or you could just accept it and be happy.”
She looks at me like I’m joking. “Yeah.”
I furrow my brow and wonder what that look was about. There’s something to unpack there. But, if I poke around too much, I run the risk of making her wish she hadn’t made me dinner. I don’t want to do that.
“Let this bread cool down another second, and I’ll put it in here for you,” she says, laying her hand on the bag.
I toss the towel next to the sink. “Or, since I’m already here, we could just grab some plates and not bother with packing it all up to take to my house.”
“I was taking this to you. For you. Not … us.”
She says it like she never considered that I might assume she cooked for me and her. How could that be possible?
“Do you have plans or something?” I ask.
“Well … no.”
“Have you eaten dinner?”
She hems and haws around before finally admitting the truth. “No.”
“So, why are we not eating together?”
She almost smiles. That’s what gives her away. It’s such a subtle gesture that most people would miss it. Being the youngest sibling out of five means I don’t miss anything.
I give her an out. Just in case I’m wrong.
“Do you think Libby will mind if I eat here with you?” I ask. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with Teddy.”
“Ted can screw off.” She rolls her eyes. “I'm pretty sure that Libby would be over the moon if she knew we were having dinner together, regardless of where it was happening.”
It’s not so much what she says but how she says it—with a bashful yet hopeful lilt to her tone—that seals the deal.
She wants me here. She just doesn’t want to admit it.
“Libby’s a smart girl,” I say, turning toward the cabinet and finding the plates. I take out two. “When is she coming back?”
“Next weekend.”
I offer her a plate. She pauses before she reaches for it. I toss her a wink that gets an eye roll as a response.
“I leave Saturday, and she comes in on Sunday,” she says, giving in to the fact that we’re having dinner together. “We’ll barely miss each other.”
“You don’t want to stay and see her?”
I take the lid off the spaghetti. Jaxi hands me a pair of tongs.
“I do, but I couldn’t change my ticket without a fee, and I don’t want to pay that. I’m cheap,” she says. “Besides, she and Ted are on some kind of second honeymoon, and I don’t want to ruin their vibe.”
We put piles of pasta on our plates. I add a piece of garlic bread to mine and then add one to hers. She presses her lips together in a subdued grin.
“A second honeymoon sounds fun,” I say, trying to keep the ambience light. “Maybe Ted will be so sexed out that he wouldn’t mind having a houseguest.”
Jaxi makes a face. “I’d rather not think about Ted and sex, if you don’t mind.”
“What? He’s not your type?”
She snorts. “Not if he was the last man on Earth.”
No surprise there. He shot way above his pay grade with Libby.
I take both of our plates to the table. Jaxi retrieves two glasses from the dishwasher.
“What would be your type then?” I ask. “Are you more of an Aquaman kind of girl?”
“No. Well, I’m not saying I’d tell Jason Momoa no …” She laughs. “But I don’t think I have a type, to be honest.”
I take a seat at the table and try to ignore the idea of her with Jason Momoa.
“I think everyone has a type,” I tell her, trying to distract myself. “Or at least a type that they’re most attracted to.”
She sets a glass of ice water in front of me and then takes the seat across the table.
“That’s probably true, I guess,” she says. “I’ve always associated the idea of someone being my type with compatibility. Maybe if I associate it with attraction, it would work out better.”
“Are you saying you’re not compatible with the men you’re attracted to?”
She makes a face. “Honestly? I’m not sure that I’m compatible with anyone, attraction aside.”
“Oh, please.”
She gets situated in her chair and refuses to make eye contact. “What kind of a woman are you attracted to?”
Right now? You.
As if she knows what’s going through my brain, she looks up. My gaze is pinned on her. Her head tilts to the side, almost as a warning, before she picks up her fork and refocuses on her plate.
I pick up my fork too. “I’m usually attracted to women who have a great smile, can laugh at themselves, and are inherently kind.”
Her fork stalls in the air.
“What?” I ask.
“That’s a load of bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.”
I laugh. “No, it’s not.”
“It is too.” She sets her fork down on the edge of her plate. “You’re trying to tell me that you aren’t attracted to women based on their physical appearance first?”
“Fine. Great smile, great laugh, kindness, and a nice ass. Better?”