The Fragile Line: Part One (The Fine Line #2) by Alicia Kobishop Page B

almost forgot that simple fact. 
    What did he want from me?
    He picked up on my silence and turned his attention from the food to me.  I’m not sure what he saw in my expression, but when our eyes met, his features softened.  “It’s just food, Chloe.  You don’t have to eat it.  I just didn’t want to be rude and eat in front of you.  I’ll take it home and have it later if you don’t want it.”
    I think that was the first time he had ever called me by my real name.  It sounded incredible on his voice. 
    “I—um—hang on.” I mentally kicked myself for stuttering.
    He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and kept his eyes on me while I walked to the coat hook between the entrance door and the kitchen space and grabbed the handbag that hung from it.  I sifted through the contents and found my wallet.  I took what I knew to be the exact cost plus tax of the dish, rounded up to the nearest dollar, and walked it over to Matt. 
    When I tried to hand it to him, he opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself when I pressed my lips together and shook my head no.  He hesitated, almost as if it would pain him to take it from me.  He stared at me, trying to read my expression, but I didn’t want to explain my actions to him, so I stayed silent.  Finally, he took the cash and stuffed it into his front pocket.  I wondered, briefly, if he knew how much it meant to me that he didn’t make a big deal out of it.
    Continuing to empty the contents of the paper bag—two salads, his dish, two bags of bread, and some napkins—he said, “There aren’t any utensils.  You got some?”
    Oh shit, I didn’t think I’d have to deal with dishes.  “Um, no.  They’re all dirty.” 
    He looked at me like he was expecting me to say more.  Finally, he said something.  “Aaaand, you don’t have soap?  Or a dishrag?”
    “No, I do.  I just hate doing dishes.  But I think I have some plastic forks.  And knives.” 
    “You don’t have a dishwasher?” he called out as I entered the kitchen to search for some plasticware.
    “Uh, I do have one.  It’s just broken.”  I opened the baggies and plastics drawer.  “Here!  Found some.”  I took two forks and two knives back to the living room.  “It leaks.  My dishwasher.  The door gasket is falling off, and I tried gluing it back on, but it didn’t work.”
    “What kind of glue did you use?”
    “I don’t know.  Just glue.  The kind you use in school.” 
    “Elmer’s glue?”
    “Yeah, I guess so.” 
    His face tightened, clearly trying to mask a smile. 
    “What?” I asked.
    “Nothing.  It’s just that you don’t need to use glue on a dishwasher door gasket.  Chances are, it’s just not lined up right, or it’s damaged.  It’s an easy fix.  Lemme take a look.”  He stood, taking his coat off, and headed toward the kitchen.
    “No!  Wait!” I called after him.  But it was too late. 
    “Holy shit, woman!”  He gaped, wide-eyed, at the dish pile while putting his coat on an empty hook.  His black t-shirt had a rock band on it that I had never heard of before.  It granted a perfect display of the sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm and the few scattered on his right.  It fit just tightly enough to show off his muscular build without him trying to overly exaggerate them.  He turned to me with raised eyebrows, and I quickly met his stare so that he wouldn’t catch me gawking at the other parts of him.  “You weren’t lying when you said you hate doing dishes.” 
    I shrugged.  “Told ya.”
    He fixed my dishwasher, the one I hadn’t been able to use for months, in a matter of minutes.  We ate our food and talked about nothing important.  Movies and music mostly.  He used every opportunity he could to throw the word “Pink” into the conversation, but he stopped when he noticed me getting annoyed.  Afterward, he talked me into doing dishes.  We fit everything into the dishwasher that we could.