❝Calm your tits, man. You got your fucking dark roast latte with an extra shot of fuckboy all over my arm!❞
During an evening in May, Tasha Aquino finally acquires her chance at an adventure. However, it comes at a deadly price and her seemingly un...
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thirty ◌ the terrible tale of harry kitson
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A home cooked meal was a luxury I certainly took for granted. I never really stopped to think about how blessed I was to have a warm, homemade meal almost everyday. Ever since I could remember, my mother was always in the kitchen. She never got tired, never complained, never showed any indication that cooking for her family was a burden. I didn't realize how a simple gesture like cooking, could speak loudly in terms of love and nurture. I should've expressed my gratitude for my mother's unyielding desire to prepare food for the family. I guess I'll never truly get the chance.
"What do you think?" Harry enthusiastically asked, wiggling his brows as he stood on the other side of the kitchen counter.
I sat on a cushioned stool, a glass plate filled with pipping hot pasta before me. It oozed with red sauce, melted cheese, and garnished with basil. The dish, as prepared by Harry, smelled like a dream come true and tasted just as heavenly. Closing my eyes, I sighed in satisfaction.
"Oh my gosh, Harry," I moaned with delight.
"Wow, if only I can get that kind of reaction from women in bed," Harry chuckled, teasing himself. I opened my eyes and grinned, shooting a thumbs up.
"Major foodgasm," I complimented, nodding my head several times. I wasted not another moment in stabbing my fork with more pieces of pasta, and stuffing the delectable dish into my mouth.
"That good, huh?" Harry was suddenly pleased with himself, as if he didn't know that his cooking skills were top notch.
"Why do you sound so surprised?" I questioned with a grin. "I'm basically giving you a free pass to be a cocky piece of shit, and you're gonna stand there and be humble?"
"I don't know," Harry shrugged, grabbing another plate from a cupboard next to him. "I love creating in the kitchen— it's a passion and it relaxes me. It makes me so happy that it would suck if I wasn't any good at it. I guess my feelings would seriously be shot if I put my entire heart in a dish, and everyone thought it tasted like shit."
I put my fork down and gazed at Harry with wonder. The dimpled boy in front of me seemed to always be so sure about life. His confidence was a top trait, and he never failed to let people know. But for Harry to admit this tidbit about him, this insecurity, only opened up my heart a little more to the idea that he and I could actually be friends.
"So what else are you insecure about?" I questioned, curiosity plastered on my face.
"Me? Insecure?" Harry scoffed, a playful undertone to his words. With a plate piled high with his creation, he strolled over to the empty seat next to me.
"Come on, Harry!" I pressed. "Clearly you're not that much of a pretentious fuckboy, so why the facade? What are you compensating for?"
"I'll have you know Tash, that I'm not a playboy," Harry defended himself with a smirk.
