She hugs me from the side. “Thanks, babe.”

Handing her a knife and fork, she starts cutting into the chicken. I like that we stand in the kitchen eating together without the formality of a dinner production. Who are we fooling? No one. We don’t have to. This is us. Casual homebodies. Someone who knew me back in my late teens would never recognize me these days. I like who I am with her.

I take a bite and moan in pleasure. The food is even better than it looks.

She makes a mean chicken dish, but I can admit that the woman has some quirks, like her acting as if the words of that lady don’t affect her. They did at the time, considering she quit a job that she not only enjoyed but also needed to pay her bills. But maybe . . . maybe it doesn’t. Maybe she knows her worth and what she means to the people who matter in her life.

Since she’s not sharing more of her feelings, she’s left me no choice. There’s only one way to find out. I stab a piece of chicken, scoring a few peas as well, and drag them through the sauce, keeping my eyes down to act casual. “What kind of purse was it—OW!”

I catch her fist before it leaves my arm, and her other, and pull her to me. Still holding my little MMA fighter’s wrists so she can’t escape, I chuckle. “That was the weakest hit. It’s like a fly throwing a punch. We need to get you pumping weights—”

“Okay, all right.” She rolls her eyes but starts laughing. Still shaking her head, she says, “I didn’t expect to hit a wall tonight.”

“Neither did I, which is why I made the joke.” I’m hoping it worked and she lets her guard down, opening up to me like I did with her. I release her wrists, and she stays.

Her smile softens as do the corners of her eyes. Reaching up, she runs her fingers over my lips and then lifts to give me a kiss. But then doesn’t. With her mouth only a few millimeters from mine, she whispers, “The only joke around here is that you still think you’re getting dessert after that.”

She pushes off me, laughing as she returns to her plate and takes a bite. She’s looking pleased as she can be with herself while I’m left scanning the kitchen for this sweet treat she speaks of before I realize she’s referring to eating her cookie later.

Oh shit, I fucked up.

And she knows it by the smug smirk on her face. Nodding, she says, “Mm-hmm. Thought that might be something you’d want.”

When she swallows, she takes a sip of wine, and then says, “I quit because I don’t want to be around people like that. It’s a job, but it’s not worth my dignity.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“We’ll see how proud you are when I’m some floozy kicked out of her apartment for not being able to pay rent.” Her fork clashes against the ceramic and then scrapes, piercing my ears.