Itâs not like weâve got something going on, and Iâm still . . . whatever this is with Dakota, so itâs not like sheâs going to kiss me or anything. Without thinking, I raise my fingers to my lips and I shove my laptop away.
Iâm a grown man, I can surely handle being friends with someone Iâm attracted to. It happens all the time in movies.
Except they usually end up together in the end . . .
I really should stop comparing movies to reality and porn to actual real-life sex. Movies and porn are so far-fetched compared to lifeâespecially to my life. This is the second time Iâve thought about porn today. I swear Iâm not as obsessed with it as it seems. Iâve actually watched less of it than most guys my age, Iâm sure.
I really need to stop rambling inside my head and go out there and socialize.
I should put a shirt on first, right?
Definitely.
I open my closet and grab the first sweatshirt I see. Itâs blue and green and the logo for the Seahawks is in a big circle on the chest. The Seahawks remind me of when Hardin and I went to a game last year and he nearly got into a fight over some guy being a jerk to me. I donât usually condone violence, but that guy was a douche.
Now that Iâm dressed, I go into the kitchen, and Noraâs still singing when I enter. Her back is to me and sheâs standing over the stove, turning one of the burner knobs. Sheâs taken off her long-sleeved work shirt and is now wearing a black tank top. The straps of her white bra are visible and I can see that she has a tattoo on the top of her back, just above her bra line. A dandelion, with half of the seeds detached and scattered across her back, as if someone had made a wish and blown on it. I guess Iâm not surprised that she has a tattoo; her body seems to be made for it somehow.
I lean against the doorway and watch her, waiting for her to notice me. She grabs a bottle of olive oil and pours some into the sauté pan on the burner. Her hips move slowly and her voice is softer now, like both cooking and singing this song are second nature.
I watch as she takes the chopped broccoli and slides it into the sizzling pan. She turns the heat down when it sizzles a little too much and grabs a spatula from the utensil holder on the counter and stirs.
I feel creepy, like the guy in Tessaâs book, as I watch her. She hasnât even caught on that Iâm here watching her. Is she completely lost in her own thoughts? Or does she just zone out when sheâs cooking? These are simple things I will never know about this mystery woman.
The song changes again and now itâs The Weeknd. I donât know if I can stand here and watch her dance to him . . . his songs are already sexual enough . . . her hips are so curvy and her pants are so tight.
I should take my ass back to my room and go to bed.
Yet thirty seconds later, Iâm still watching. Nora stirs the broccoli, pouring some sort of sauce on it, and then turns around, spotting me.
She doesnât act surprised or embarrassed at all when she sees me lingering in the doorway. Her lips turn up into a smile and she waves the spatula for me to come closer. The oven beeps and she sings her way to it. I donât say anything, I just walk over and sit down at the kitchen table. The kitchen is small; the table is in the corner, but still only a few feet away from the stove and fridge.
Nora grabs a sunflower-printed potholder from the counter and opens the oven. She pulls out a cake and sets it on the empty side of the stove top. Sheâs definitely good at multitasking. I can barely bake a store-bought cake mix and breathe at the same time, let alone make a cake from scratch and cook something on the stove simultaneously.
âTessa just texted me. The twenty-top just got their food. Sheâs going to be a while,â Nora tells me.
I glance at her and nod, trying desperately to ignore the way her breasts threaten to spill out of her tank top.
Would it be rude to ask her to put her other shirt back on?
Yes, Iâm positive that it would be. And it would reveal that Iâve been watching a little closer than