Nico Vaughan, the junior class "Nice Girl" wants to be free from her abusive and obsessive ex-boyfriend.
Valen Henford, the school's resident "Rich Guy meets Bad Boy" wants to spend his senior year with the girl he's been in love with for years.
W...
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"HEARTS WILL NEVER BE PRACTICAL UNTIL THEY ARE MADE UNBREAKABLE" (The Wizard of Oz).
|◁ II ▷|
The kitchen is rarely used? A kitchen of this caliber? I would die five times over to have a kitchen like this to bake in.
I set down my whisk and walk over to Valen. He's staring at his recipe on his phone, but his eyes don't move.
I set my hand on his back, not quite tall enough to reach his shoulder. "Valen?"
He turns to me, his eyes meeting mine. "Mmm?"
I fumble for my words, trying to figure out something to say. I'm not sure he'll appreciate sympathy, so I start with "Why have a nice kitchen if you know you won't use it much? Didn't your parents build this house?"
Valen nods, taking a deep breath and turning to me. He hesitantly takes my hand that had rested on his back seconds ago and holds it to his chest. "Well... I'm not sure. Maybe because they can. Maybe for looks. Maybe because they know I do some cooking and baking. I've always done that."
His eyes leave mine and his tone becomes soft, his words lowering to a tone that hides the true emotions behind them. "I've always cooked for myself. There was hardly anyone else there to do it for me."
My fingers find the material of his shirt, fiddling with the fabric hiding his chest from my view. He glances at me, a silent battle within him showing itself through the hesitancy and fear in his eyes. His heart pounds against my hand.
Still, he continues. "I... Um, my parents had a hired chef when they first started leaving me when they went on business trips. Natalia. She was nice, and she was young and fun. She was kind of my babysitter. I learned to cook from her. My Gramma B taught me how to bake before she passed a little more than ten years ago, now."
His eyes grow distant before he speak again. "When my parents learned I could cook, they set Natalia up in a good cooking school and sent her off. They deemed me independent enough to be alone for a couple weeks every few months."
He looks down at me, his eyes dropping low on my face. "Um, did you—did you start your beignets, yet?"
I back away, accepting that as the end of the conversation. "I have, and mine will taste better than whatever you've come up with in that math brain of yours."
I walk back to my little station and look at his confused expression.
"What in tarnation is that supposed to mean?" His face screws up in confusion.
