You're His New Neighbor

Four

"Cooking for you is the least I could do for you after spending that much on that dress." You reasoned with him, arms full of groceries, standing at his front door with a smile on your face.

Watching him shell out £300 for that dress had made you choke, but he didn't so much as blink when he swiped that black card of his.

"A proper dinner, eh?" John grinned, the idea of a home-cooked meal stirring something close to excitement within him. "Now that's an offer I'd be a fool to turn down. But don't go thinking you need to repay me for the dress. It's my treat. Really."

It didn't take you long to get cozy in his kitchen, a glass of wine in your hand while you stirred salt into a pot of water to get it boiling.

"Wine, too? Christ, you're spoiling me here." He leaned next to you against the kitchen counter. "Let's get to it, then," he grunted, rolling up his sleeves. "You tell me what to do, and I'll be your sous-chef for the night. Can't promise I won't be a bit rusty, but I follow orders well enough."

"You take orders well?" You let out a cheeky laugh. This had become your banter. A little dirty joke here and there and a little teasing between adults had kept the long days entertaining, "In my experience, you seem to give them better than you can follow."

He watched you move around his kitchen with ease, finding your way as if you'd been there a thousand times before.

"Aye, you're not wrong about that," he confirmed. "But I reckon I can follow a command or two when the situation calls for it. Especially when it's coming from someone who knows their way around a kitchen."

He took the bottle of wine, pouring himself a glass and topping yours off.

You took the bottle from his hand, splashing a bit of the red in to make the sauce richer, taking a drink of your own right out of the bottle before you realized, "Oh, shit. Sorry. I'm used to cooking for one, and here I am putting my mouth all over the bottle."

John shook his head with mock disapproval, "I've shared bottles with worse, love. It doesn't bother me one bit." In fact, he liked the fact that you'd put your pretty lips on the bottle, but that wasn't something he'd say out loud to you.

He leaned back against the counter, sipping his wine from the glass, his eyes watching you with a warmth that had built over time.

"You keep cooking like this, and I might just have to make you a permanent fixture in this kitchen," he joked, but there was an undercurrent to his words that suggested he wouldn't mind the arrangement one bit.

"Is that so?" You smirked, "Gonna make me a little 1950's style neighbor/housewife?" You chuckled, "I think I would've made them all faint back then if they heard my mouthy self talk back to you like I do."

John's own chuckle hummed trough the space and the crows feet at the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. "Oh, I don't doubt it. I reckon you'd give those stuffy old biddies quite the shock with your banter. But I reckon I've always had a soft spot for someone who can speak her mind. Keeps life interesting."

You took a small spoon and tasted the sauce, pulling the spoon out through your lips to clean it before you set it back down. He watched the whole damn thing like he'd have a test on it tomorrow.

You handed him a wooden spoon and directed him to the pot of boiling water ready for pasta. "Since you offered, I'd love help. That is if you can still deal with being close to me after a few days of us being shoved in the same room together nonstop."

He took up the position by the pot of boiling water, feeling the heat radiating off the stove. "Sharing space with you hasn't been a problem," he assured you, a teasing note to his voice while he prepared to drop the pasta into the bubbling water. "In fact, it's been one of the perks, if I'm honest. Not every day a bloke like me gets to share his space with someone as talented and easy on the eyes as yourself. Though now that I think about it, it has been every day."

John stirred in the pasta, making sure it didn't stick. He was painfully aware of the heat, not just from the stove, but the kind that seemed to be building between you—a slow simmer, something that's slowly becoming a boil.

"'Easy on the eyes'? Well now you're just buttering me up aren't you, John?" You rolled your eyes at him, then hoisted yourself up to sit on the countertop conveniently close to the bottle of wine. You took another deep drink from the bottle, completely forgoing the fact that you had a whole glass sitting on the opposite counter, your cheeks flushing already from the alcohol.

"Careful, you might start seeing two of me if you keep hitting that bottle like it's your job," he warned, but the smile he just couldn't seem to shake when you were around made it obvious that he didn't mind one bit.

John glanced down at the pot to make sure the pasta was cooking nicely before walking over to boldly stand between your knees, his hands braced on the countertop on either side of you. "Besides," he added, lowering his voice to a near husky murmur, "I'd hate for you to be too flushed to enjoy the meal we've slaved over. Or the company, for that matter."

He reached over to gently nudge the bottle of wine away from your lips, his fingers brushing against yours in the process. "Let's save some of that liquid courage for the meal, eh? Don't want you slipping off that countertop."

Your heart misfired, but you quickly gathered yourself, "See, the beauty of this arrangement, John... is that you can't tell me what to do." Your eyes locked on his as you took another drink, your throat bobbing with each swallow. A drop of the wine glistened on your bottom lip as you pulled the bottle away.

John's eyes zeroed in on the droplet, and there was a flicker of something raw in his gaze before he schooled his expression. "That so?" he drawled, the corners of his lips twitching as he brought his eyes back up to yours. "Well then, it's a good thing I've got no intention of telling you what to do. I'm just offering... friendly advice."

He reached up, but instead of touching you, he plucked the wine bottle from your hand with a firm yet gentle grip, setting it to the side.

"Wouldn't want you to miss the taste of the real treat," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. He reached back up and—with a deliberately slow pace—ran his thumb across your bottom lip, capturing the stray drop of wine and bringing it to his own mouth. His eyes stayed locked on yours as he tasted the wine from his thumb, watching as you processed the challenge he'd just laid out for you.

"The sauce should be about done," John straightened up, as if the heat in the room hadn't just spiked several degrees. He stepped back, giving you a small bit of space, but the tension between you still hung heavy in the air. "Why don't you hop down and give it a taste? Unless, of course, you're feeling too... flushed."

The challenge in his voice was clear, and it was about more than just about the food. It was an invitation, a gauntlet thrown down between you, seeing if you'd dive straight in with him. He turned back to the stove to busy himself with the pasta, but it was clear his attention was still very much on you.

Fuckin tease. You grumbled to yourself before hopping off of the counter and grabbing the bottle again.

The flush on your thighs and chest was no longer from the alcohol, and you took another defiant sip of the wine before setting the bottle back down, returning to help him plate up the food.

You shoved your way in front of him, shutting off the heat on the stove and moving the last piece of meat to the plate to rest before cutting.

"Bollocks, woman," John muttered under his breath, his smirk widening when your back pushed against his chest. He leaned in, close enough that his beard brushed the shell of your ear. "You've got some nerve," he whispered, his voice gravelly with a latent desire that he wasn't bothering to hide. Not anymore.

You see, John Price was all confidence and mischief. A lethal combination that was likely to end in one kind of fire or another.