“I was raised by a man who takes personal safety to a whole other level; he’d be disappointed if I wasn’t proactive.” I grab the boxes of no boil pasta and open them up.

“I can appreciate that.” He comes up next to me and watches as I finish mixing up the ricotta cheese mixture that will go between each layer of pasta.

“So do you really not know how to cook, or do you use that as a way of making women feel sorry for you, so they end up in your kitchen.”

“I worked at a steak house growing up. I can cook a steak, bake a potato, and make a few sides. Lasagna isn’t something I ever learned how to make, and since it’s not something I’d normally eat, I have no desire to learn.”

“Your niece eats it, you should learn for her.” I meet his gaze.

“If I did that, I wouldn’t have been able to make you feel sorry for me.” He winks.

I swoon like an idiot.

“Now tell me about all these men who know you. Have you dated all of them?”

My stomach drops and I drag my eyes off his. I want to lie because that is what society has told us women to do, to lie about how many men we’ve dated or slept with, especially when a man asks us that question. But I fight back the urge to do that. Why is it wrong for me to explore my options and search for the right person for me? I mean, even if I had sex with all these guys, what would really be wrong with that? Men sleep with tons of women and get nothing but a pat on the back while women are shunned and looked down on like they are somehow tarnished.

Screw that.

“I have. I’ve dated a lot, and kept most of the guys I’ve been out with as friends because they are good guys.”

“Do you end it or do they?”

“What does that matter?” I look over at him and he shrugs.

“Just wondering if it’s your MO to run.”

“I do not run.”

“Mmm.” He makes a sound in the back of his throat then takes his eyes off me when Winter climbs up onto one of the stools at the counter across from us.

“I’m done with my reading.”

“Good job are you ready to practice for your spelling test?” he asks her and her shoulders slump.

“If I have to.”

“You do. Go get the stuff, we’ll make it quick.”

“Okay.” She gives in and hops off her stool.

I finish with the lasagna. Since it’s late and making lasagna from scratch would take hours, I did a quick bake one. A couple jars of good quality pasta sauce, fresh mozzarella, ricotta, and no bake pasta. It’s something my mom would throw together when I was a kid and something I honestly forgot about until we were at the store. While Clay begins to go over Winter’s words with her, I dust the top of the dish with cheese then carry it to the oven and place it inside where it should bake for forty-five or so minutes. As I start back to the counter, I glance over at Clay and find a smile on his face as he watches Winter jot down the word “because” on her paper, and a burst of déjà vu washes over me almost causing me to stumble.