Falling For Dad's College Rival - Page 37

Truth is, I can’t cook to save my life.

But Trent’s kitchen, all that space and so much food to work with. How hard can it be?

Before any of that, Trent suggests we make some closet space for my new clothes, and although he hints at it, he’s careful not to go straight to the lingerie.

That’s for later. I think we both silently agree on that point.

Trent’s… Our bedroom has huge floor to ceiling windows and a walk-in closet with a doorway that leads to the bathroom joining it.

There are four bathrooms in the whole place, and he doesn’t seem to mind if I take one just for myself or use all four.

He’s so easygoing about everything, I feel like I don’t want to take over anything more than a tiny space in one of his closets for now, which he finds pretty funny.

“It’s okay,” he consoles me. “You’ll have this place filled up with stuff in no time,” he adds knowingly.

His closet is vast, bigger than my bedroom at home, with a large open space just for me but I don’t think I could just start hanging all my things in there just yet.

It looks like the stores we were shopping in most of today on his side of the closet. Everything laid out and hanging so neat.

Everything is custom tailored or with a designer label.

It’s a stretch for me to go from off the rack at the mall to this lifestyle. But Trent isn’t a braggart or showy about his things.

In fact, I find it hard to imagine him in anything else.

Once he’s satisfied I have some space of my own ready, he packs up all the bags and boxes, letting me know he’s heading down to the basement to put everything in the recycling.

I offer to help, but he hints at dinner already.

“That lunch was so small, really. Help yourself to what’s in the kitchen. I can’t wait to see what you come up with,” he calls over his shoulder.

Neither can I.

Having a look around in the fridge and pantries, I know I have to make something from scratch. Using the ready-made things, as good as they look isn’t the angle I’m going for here.

By the time Trent comes back up from the basement, I’m still looking.

Looking undecided, but he only smiles and kisses me on the top of my head.

“I’ll leave you to it if you want. I don’t want to be looking over your shoulder,” he tells me.

“What are you gonna do?” I ask, feeling a little pang of separation anxiety, hoping he’s not gonna just leave me here all alone.

“I’ve got some office work, I guess. Emails and a couple of phone calls. Or I can sit here and watch you,” he grins, letting his eyes travel down my new outfit as he raises a brow.

“We could even skip dinner altogether,” he adds, but I tell him to behave.

“That’s dessert,” I tease him. “I’ll be fine here,” I lie. “I’ll call out if I need you though,” I let him know, gulping hard before I tell myself I can do this.

It’s a home cooked meal, how hard can it be? I’ve cooked at home loads of times.

But I’m aiming for something better than mac n’ Cheese here.

It’s a lot sooner than later when I need Trent. And not just to help with the cooking.

More to help with the pan that’s on fire. Probably a good death for the steak though.

I knew I’d kinda ruined it before it burst into flames.

Midway through calling out for him, I feel his strong hands around me, lifting my feet clear off the ground as he puts me well away from any danger before lifting a lid from the counter and covering the pan, and shifting it off the stove he’s shut off.

Crisis over.

He opens the balcony door after to let the smoke out before the alarms go off, but only after asking me if I’m okay.

I feel my lip trembling, feeling stupid again. Feeling like I can’t do anything right.

“I just wanted to try to do something, just for you.” I sniff.

He comes over to me and lifts me up, cradling me in his huge arms as he carries me to the living room, setting me down on one of the huge leather couches.

“Just tell me you’re okay,” he says, stroking my hair back.

I start to list off all the things wrong.

The pan, the meat I ruined. The smoke.

“I just wanted to make you a special dinner,” I groan.

But he doesn’t care about any of that. He only cares about me.

“What’s special, what means most to me Brooke is having you here. Not what you can or can’t cook. Just you being here is all I need,” he says tenderly, making my heart melt because he’s so sincere about it. So forgiving about the fact I’ve just ruined his kitchen as well as our dinner.

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