Page 211 of Sweet Nightmare
Because regardless of what my heart or my brain have to say about the situation, one inconvenient fact remains. I’ve agreed to spend an evening alone with the man who managed to slip past my defenses with nothing more than a few words and a few rare, devastating smiles.
I’ve spent years building my walls carefully, brick by brick, making sure nobody gets close enough to find the soft, vulnerable parts of me.
And now?
Now I’m standing in front of my closet, contemplating what to wear for a man who made a complete mess of my carefully organized life.
Craaaaaap.
twenty-eight
. . .
Two Grumps in Love. Maybe?
“Try again. Use your brain this time.” — A
How the fuck did I end up here?
Oh, right. I wanted to impress her.
I stare at the kimchi stew simmering on the stove. As if a bowl of stew will impress a woman who most likely considers a thousand-dollar fish a snack.
But this is who I am. I cook, make music, fix shit, and handle my own problems. I’m not about to become someone else because a woman who looks like the sun and moon had a child has somehow gotten under my skin.
Zymon was right.
I’m fucked.
Because this right here proves it.
I’ve spent an hour and half preparing dinner. I also took my damn time perfecting the stew, adjusting the broth, tenderizing the pork, and making sure the tofu absorbed just enough flavor to be perfect.
I cooked rice, japchae, fresh kimchi, and enough banchan to feed a small army. And because apparently, I’ve lost my fucking mind, I made dessert too.
Yakgwa. Traditional Korean honey cookies.
I spent nearly an hour getting them right.
Yeah. I’m definitely fucked.
And all for her.
Why the fuck am I nervous?
It’s only dinner. Just two people eating food.
That’s all.
Liaaaar.
Yeah, I’m a fucking liar. I don’t even believe that shit.
Feeling anxious as fuck, I adjust a bowl. Move it back. Fix the chopsticks. Straighten the spoon.
“The fuck is wrong with you, man?” I mutter, still rearranging shit.
I glance at the empty chair across from mine and check the time.
