Until the sound of footfalls comes from the stairwell. I keep my gaze fixed on the potatoes I’m peeling, only glancing up when I hear him enter the kitchen.

When I see him, I’m hit with a wave of lust and longing powerful enough to knock me over. Beck strolling into my kitchen wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt with wet hair is something I want to happen more than just this once.

Emma and Cressida keep arguing in an overdone attempt to act casual, and Beck saunters over to my side. “You’re cooking?”

“Mm-hmm.” I set aside the last peeled potato and make eye contact with him. He holds my gaze as I probe, trying to get a read on his current mood.

Nothing.

I can’t discern a damn thing.

We just stare at each other. Unfortunately, Beck has one of those faces that looks better the longer you stare at it. I get lost in those azure depths, so adrift I startle when Anne says my name.

“Saylor?” she repeats.

“Yeah?” I tear my gaze away from his.

“The timer just went off for the chicken.”

I grab the potholders off the counter and pull the pan out of the oven. Juice bubbles and crackles in the bottom of the dish, and the surface of the meat is crispy, cooked to a perfect shade of light brown. I grab the meat thermometer from the drawer to check, but I already know it’s done. Once I confirm it is, I transfer the chicken onto a plate, fill the pan with potatoes, and stick it back in the oven. Then, I start on the salad.

“Can I help?” Beck asks quietly.

Without looking at him, I slide a cucumber his way. “Chop this.”

He does, and the rest of dinner is ready shortly thereafter. We all sit down, and my three housemates sure don’t have any shortage of things to say. They chatter about such a range of topics I can barely keep track.

One minute I’ll tune in and it’ll be about bunnies as pets, the next high-waisted bikini bottoms. I’m at a loss for the connection between those two. Dinner is good—if I do say so myself—but I’m barely cognizant of what I’m tasting. I’m hyperaware of Beck sitting a foot to my left. He mostly seems amused by the endless commentary.

We finish eating, and Cressida offers to do the dishes.

“It’s fine, Cress. I know you want to watch the show. I’ll clean up.”

“What show?” Beck asks, speaking for the first time since we sat down at the table.

“Twenty-Five to One!” Emma exclaims. “Have you seen it?”

I snort and Beck glances at me. “What is it about?” he asks.

“It’s a reality television show about finding love,” Cressida replies.

“Filled with unnecessary drama and toxic personalities, and fueled by too much alcohol,” I add.