Page 67 of The Storm

“It’s late,” he says.

Neither of us moves. I slide my empty plate toward him. “Can I have another one?”

He stares at me for a bit, but when I just eye him back, he takes the plate, gets up, and makes me another sandwich.

“It really is good,” I say through a mouthful.

There’s a flash in his eyes that, I swear, makes him look pleased. He erases that look with a scowl a second later, but I already saw it. And having that look in my mind makes all the antagonism he usually aims my way feel somehow like playacting.

I forget myself. Forget to look away.

His scowl deepens.

“What?” he demands.

I tilt my head to the side.

“I think you might not hate me any longer,” I say.

He stares back, our gazes locked over the kitchen island, his eyes the color of storm clouds.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he says. The reply is flippant, but then he looks at me like… Almost likehe’sthe one who maybe, just maybe, would like that.

He goes to the sink and busies himself cleaning up.

“Let me,” I say.

He ignores me.

“You cooked.” I hip check him out of the way. “I clean. It’s the law.”

We’re both silent while I finish doing the dishes and put everything back in its place. When I turn around, Nick is leaning against the kitchen island across from me, arms loosely folded over his chest, watching me in that quiet way he has.

I stretch out my leg and tap his foot with my toes. He looks down. Then up. Then down again. His toes curl for a moment. I slide my foot a little farther, brushing along the side of his. He’s very quiet and very still.

He doesn’t pull away.

I drag my toes lightly over his foot. The side of my foot settles against the side of his foot. They fit perfectly.

“Isn’t there enough room in the kitchen anymore or something?” he asks.

I tilt my head to the side. “Am I invading your personal space?”

He huffs something that might be a laugh. He tips his head back for a second before he looks back at me. Still not moving his foot.

“Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

I slide my foot a fraction closer, pressing it just a little more firmly against his.

There’s another pause.

Then…

His foot shifts just the tiniest bit. Just enough to press back.

The inside of my chest goes warm. My heart doesn’t pick up speed. Instead, this time, it beats strong and steady, almost as if all of this? It’s meant to be.