Ann’s POV
With his sleeves rolled up, showcasing the fineness of his forearm, I watch him work on the counter with all seriousness.
His biceps stretch and relax against his tight transparent blue shirt. When he finally glances up at me, I wave shyly.
He smiles.
Wow!
Vince is hot!
I blink and turn away instantly. I already know he is. I shouldn’t continue to admit that.
When I turn back to watch him, his back is to me. The fridge is open and he is bent over, picking a few ingredients and placing them on the kitchen counter.
Who would have thought Vince of all people could cook? What if he doesn’t but he is just doing this to impress me? What if the food turns out bad?
I shoot to my feet instantly, striding towards the counter. “Can I help?”
He leaves the fridge and places a can on the counter. “No.”
“Why?!” I pout, stamping my feet on the floor. “I want to help.”
There are eggs in a bowl, flour, olive oil and chicken breast on the counter. It makes me ask. “What do you want to cook?”
“Guess.” He doesn’t spare me a glance as he drops the chicken breast into a large ziplock bag and begins to pound on it with a rolling pin.
I’ve never seen any recipe like this, with this sort of ingredient. When I look around further, I see the herbs on the other side of the counter, a pack of pasta, black pepper and salt, ginger powder and even fresh mozzarella cheese.
I’m sure he’s not going to make me just pasta. He has more ingredients than just doing that.
“I can’t guess. Tell me.”
“No!”
I watch him with a pout, hoping he would at least give me a hint but he doesn’t bother to look up at me.
Like a sad kid, I stomp back to my seat a few distance away from the counter. The lighting bulbs are so bright I can see him from every corner of the room.
Within a few minutes, I see him draining the pasta with a sieve before heading back to the chicken breast.
He is working swiftly like Mark and the other chef does. It makes me want to question him; how he learnt how to cook and from who.
Mark made me spaghetti carbonara and he kept on making remarks on why men choose to cook for women.
It comes to a meaning, he said but I choose to ignore he ever said that. I didn’t act like I heard him but now I am beginning to think he was right or he wanted me to believe he was right.
Men cook for the people they value. People they like. And love.
But then, this thing between Vince and I doesn’t come with any of that. I don’t know why I have this silly idea that he might actually like me and this is the only way to express that.
My mind jerks back to the incident this morning, how we ended up arguing on our way to work and why.
It was because he doesn’t hesitate to tell me how he doesn’t believe in love and happily ever after. If Vince doesn’t hide that side of him, what does this mean then?
Another reason I can think of is jealousy. Perhaps, he is jealous because Mark cooked for me. This is probably why he is doing the same.
But a man can never be jealous unless he likes a woman involved. Vince doesn’t like me so what is this?
“Dinner is ready, mademoiselle,” he bows from across the counter like an Italian chef with a smirk on his face.
I laugh and clap my hands before rushing over.
If this is good, I can’t wait to devour it all. But if it’s terrible, I won’t tell him so he won’t feel bad.
I will suggest making a dish for him too if it’s really bad.
The sight of pasta and chicken makes me begin to salivate before I can sit on the high stool.
He dishes out the meal professionally on a plate before placing it right in front of me. I pick up the cutlery and stare at him briefly for some sort of assurance that the meal is going to be good.
He urges me to eat with a wave of his hand and I do.
The flavors from the chicken hits my taste buds differently, making me shut my eyes and moan out in pure delight.
Wow!
“Vince?!” I shout after gulping it down. He grins and spins around to open the fridge again. Then he comes back with a bottle of wine. “What is this?”
“That is pasta and chicken parmigiana,” he replies, pouring the wine into the glass cup.
“Parmigiana? Like Parmesan?” He nods.
Impressed is an understatement of how I feel.
“It’s an Italian-American dish. Usually, we pair the chicken parmigiana with bread or…”
“What?!”
“Yeah but it tastes great with pasta too…”
“Vince, this is beyond great,” I cut him short again, my eyes fixed on him. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?!” I ask when he begins to fill another glass cup with wine.
He shakes his head. “I prepared a meal for you so enjoy.”
I smile inwardly. Then I continue to eat, enjoying every bit of the meal till I am full. I take a sip of the wine and it’s also nice.
“What wine is this?” I stare at the bottle but I can barely make out the name. It’s an Italian wine.
“Amarone della Valpolicella,” he responds. “Made in Valpolicella.”
“I have no idea where that is but I assure you, this is great. Both the meal and the wine. As well as the chef.” I smile at the last statement and he goes still.
Shit!
I shouldn’t have said that.
Does he find that inappropriate?
“Thank you for dinner,” I mutter again, hoping it will ease the tension. I step down from the stool before strolling back to where I was seated earlier with my wine.
He doesn’t say a word as he clears the counter to wash the dishes. I wanted to offer to do that but the look on his face has me keeping silent.
Was I too forward?
Did he misunderstand me?
Does he hate the thought of me liking him? Why does he always hate cold to compliments like that?
With my thoughts swirling around, I don’t know when he approaches until he slouches next to me, peering at me intensely.
Slowly, he lifts a hand to my lips and I raise a brow.”What?!”
You have butter on your lips,” he mentions and I groan in frustration. Clumsily, I rub my hand over my lips.
With his eyes still locked on me, he points towards my lips again, giving my heart a jolt. “You haven’t wiped your lips.”
Suddenly, I begin to feel hot, flustered, and anxious, probably due to the heavy silence and tension in the room.
I am tempted to suggest we head back home.
Quickly, I drop the glass of wine but before I can wipe my lips, he leans closer, bringing out a hankie from God knows where.
It makes a weird sensation skitter down my spine.
It takes forever because I had to shut my eyes to stop me from having wild imaginations about this closeness between us.
Vince doesn’t like you, Ann.
Something soft touches my lips, forcing me to flutter my eyes open to see our lips touching.
My stomach flutters. My heart slams against my chest, making my abdomen clench forcefully.
The two times we’ve kissed, I initiated it. Aside from the day we got married which I still can’t remember if it was me who initiated that kiss or him.
I sit frozen with my lips on his, waiting for him to either move away or move his lips on mine.
He isn’t doing anything.
Suddenly, his eyes flash open too and he moves his lips on mine, wiping off the butter. When he doesn’t move back, I close my eyes again, in frustration.
My fist is clenched so hard. My body feels hot and on fire.
My insides are in disarray.
The desire seeping into me wants me to take over the kiss, delve my tongue into his mouth and take in all of his breath.
My pride holds me back.
Suddenly, he pulls away, rising to his feet instantly before turning his back on me.
“Let’s head back.” He mutters before disappearing into his room.
I can barely breathe until the ringing sound of my phone jerks me back to life. I exhale deeply before leaning forward to grab my phone, my head spinning with the thought of what just happened.
Vince doesn’t like me, but I can’t help but question why he did that.
I pick up the phone and glue it to my ears. “Annette.”
My body freezes for a moment as a familiar wave engulfs me before I call out. “Ryan?”