Chapter 144

Chapter 144
Edward POV

Then, because I was apparently incapable of leaving well enough alone, I added the thing I'd sworn I wouldn't do: I gave her the eyes. The ones that had apparently worked in the grocery store when I'd wanted her to accept the cilantro. Slightly widened, slightly pleading, the expression my mother had always called my "puppy dog face" and had strictly forbidden me from using in business negotiations.

"Please?" I said, letting every ounce of genuine wanting show in my voice. "Can I come learn to cook with you?"

Anna stared at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable, and I felt my heart hammering against my ribs as I waited for her verdict. This shouldn't matter so much, I told myself. It was just an invitation to cook together, just a simple domestic arrangement that didn't mean anything more than what it was on the surface.

But I knew that was a lie. This mattered more than any business deal I'd ever negotiated, more than any board meeting or acquisition or strategic alliance. This was about whether she'd let me back into her life, whether she'd give me another chance to prove that I could be different, better, worthy of the care she'd been trying to give me all along.

Finally, she spoke, her tone deliberately light but with an undercurrent of something softer. "I'll have to think about it. Right now, let's just eat."

It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either, and I felt relief flood through me so intensely that I had to consciously stop myself from grinning like an idiot. She was going to think about it. She wasn't shutting me down completely, wasn't telling me to leave and never come back. She was going to consider it, which meant there was hope.

"Okay," I said, managing to keep my voice relatively steady despite the way my pulse was racing. "You think about it. And I'll do the dishes after we eat."

The words were out before I'd fully thought them through, and I saw Anna's eyes widen in genuine surprise. She stared at me like I'd just announced I was planning to take up interpretive dance or join a commune.

"You'll... do the dishes?" she repeated, as if she needed confirmation that she'd heard correctly.

I cleared my throat, trying to appear nonchalant about the offer despite the fact that I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually washed dishes by hand. "Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, I just—" She stopped, shook her head slightly, and I could see her fighting back a smile. "No problem at all."

We resumed eating, and the silence that fell between us was comfortable now, punctuated only by the quiet sounds of silverware against plates and the occasional satisfied sigh as one of us tried another dish. I found myself watching her between bites, noting the way she ate with unselfconscious enjoyment, the way she'd occasionally close her eyes when tasting something particularly good, the small smile that played at her lips when she caught me looking.

This was what I wanted. This exact moment, this feeling of peace and contentment and simple domestic happiness. Not the grand gestures or expensive gifts or carefully orchestrated dates that I'd thought were necessary to maintain a relationship. Just this—sharing a meal we'd prepared together, sitting across from each other at a simple table, letting the food and the company be enough.

By the time we'd finished eating, I felt fuller than I had in months, and not just from the food. There was something about this entire experience—from shopping to cooking to eating—that had filled some hollow place inside me I hadn't known existed. I stood up, gathering plates before Anna could protest, and carried them to the kitchen sink.

She followed me, watching with barely concealed amusement as I rolled up my sleeves and turned on the water. "You really don't have to do this," she said, but there was warmth in her voice, not rejection.

"I want to," I said simply, and it was true. I wanted to do this small thing for her, wanted to contribute something to this shared experience beyond my credit card and my presence. I wanted her to see that I was capable of more than writing checks and giving orders, that I could be useful in practical, everyday ways.

As I started washing the first plate, I felt her move closer, felt her presence at my elbow as she picked up a dish towel. "At least let me dry," she said, and there was something in her voice—something soft and almost affectionate—that made my hands still in the soapy water.

We worked in silence for a few minutes, falling into an easy rhythm of wash and dry and put away, and I found myself thinking that this might be the most intimate thing we'd ever done together. More intimate than sex, more intimate than any of our previous interactions. Because this was real, unscripted, unguarded. This was two people sharing space and work and comfortable quiet, building something together one clean dish at a time.

When the last plate was dried and put away, Anna hung up the dish towel and turned to face me. We were standing close now, close enough that I could see the flecks of darker blue in her eyes, could smell the faint scent of her shampoo mixed with the lingering aroma of garlic and ginger.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For helping. For being here. For... all of it."

I reached for her without thinking, my hands finding her waist as naturally as if I'd done it a thousand times before. "Thank you for letting me," I said, and then I was kissing her, unable to resist the pull any longer.

This kiss was different from the one in the kitchen earlier, different from all the kisses that had come before. This one was slow and thorough and unhurried, a kiss that said we had all the time in the world, that there was nowhere else either of us needed to be. I felt her hands slide up to my shoulders, felt her lean into me with a trust that made my chest ache, and I thought: This. This is what I've been missing. This is what I threw away. This is what I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve.

When we finally pulled apart, both slightly breathless, I rested my forehead against hers and let myself just exist in this moment, in this feeling of rightness that I'd never experienced before but now couldn't imagine living without.

"I should probably go," I said eventually, though every fiber of my being was screaming at me to stay, to find some excuse to extend this evening indefinitely.

Anna nodded against my forehead, but she didn't pull away, didn't drop her hands from my shoulders. "Probably," she agreed, but there was a note of regret in her voice that matched my own feelings.

We stood like that for another moment, neither of us quite willing to be the one to break the connection, before I finally, reluctantly, stepped back. "I'll call you tomorrow?" I said, and it came out more like a question than a statement.

"Okay," she said, and the small smile she gave me felt like a gift.

I gathered my jacket and headed for the door, but paused with my hand on the doorknob, turning back to look at her one more time. She was standing in the middle of her small living room, her arms wrapped around herself in a gesture that might have been protective or might have just been comfortable, and she looked beautiful and real and absolutely perfect in her simplicity.

"Anna?" I said, and she looked up at me with those incredible blue eyes. "I meant what I said. About wanting to do this again. About learning to cook with you."

She nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "I know you did. And I'll think about it. I promise."

It would have to be enough. For now, it would have to be enough.