Chapter 15
The soft hum of the kitchen's overhead light mixed with the gentle clatter of utensils as Erin stirred something over the stove. The savory aroma of garlic and herbs filled the space, yet she barely noticed. Her hands moved with practiced precision, but her mind was far from present.
That kiss.
It haunted her.
Wrong. So utterly wrong.
He was supposed to be the enemy. The one person she'd sworn to loathe, to resist, to break. And yet… that kiss had felt like gravity itself had shifted.
Like falling, not crashing.
It wasn't the kind of kiss that made your heart flutter—it was the kind that made your bones forget how to hold you up. That made time collapse. That made every stupid wall she'd ever built splinter under the sheer weight of it.
It had felt like something stolen from another universe. Unreal. Surreal. Like it didn't belong here, but somehow made more sense than anything else in her life.
And that terrified her.
She was so lost in thought she didn't hear the footsteps until a low, smooth voice broke into her haze.
"What are your top five interests?"
She spun around, startled.
Xander was casually seated on the counter beside the fridge, arms crossed, legs dangling like he owned the place—which, technically, he did.
She stared at him, blinking. "What?"
He shrugged. "Top five interests. Hobbies. Passions. Things you care about."
Her brow furrowed. "Why?"
He smirked, leaning back on his hands.
"Since I'm going to make you fall for me, I figured I should know where to target."
She blinked again. Then narrowed her eyes.
"Wait… you were serious?"
His expression didn't change. Piercing. Intent. That maddening, quiet confidence that wrapped around her brain and made it hard to think straight.
She sighed internally. If she didn't give him something, he clearly wasn't going to give up.
The truth was… she didn't really know what her interests were. Not really. Her life had never allowed room for exploration. There was no space for likes and dislikes when survival was the only constant.
But she had imagined things.
Watched others from a distance.
So she rattled off the things that had always seemed… beautiful. Peaceful.
"Nature," she said quietly. "Music. Tennis. Books." She paused, then added, "Photography."
He tilted his head, thoughtful. "Photography?"
"I like how it freezes a moment," she said. "Makes it permanent. Even if everything else changes."
He didn't reply to that. Just nodded slightly, like he filed that away.
She turned back to the stove, hoping that would end the conversation.
It didn't.
"What about your type?" he asked.
She didn't look at him. "I already told you. I don't have one."
"Everyone has one."
She was silent for a long time before answering.
"I've never thought of it," she said simply. "So I wouldn't know."
He was quiet this time.
She plated the food in silence and carried it to the table. When she returned with a glass of water, she found him already seated, but clearly distracted.
She began briefing him on his schedule, reading off the calendar she had memorized perfectly.
He wasn't listening.
His gaze was locked on her face, brow slightly furrowed, lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.
She paused, mid-sentence. "Are you even listening?"
"Huh?"
She gave him a look.
He blinked. "Sorry. I was just thinking."
"About?"
"You," he said bluntly.
She froze.
He sat up straighter. "I still don't get it. You're smart. You're not in a relationship. You say you don't have a type. So, what—are you just… immune?"
Knowing clearly he's gonna keep bugging if she doesn't answer, she rolled her eyes and said, "If I had a type, I'd say someone who takes care of himself."
His lips quirked. "That's it?"
She nodded. "That's it."
He smirked, like that was the easiest thing in the world. And in a way, it was. He did take care of himself. His sculpted build, crisp style, immaculate grooming—all of it screamed self-discipline.
But Erin's expression was unreadable. Cool. Distant.
And that made him itch. Because he wasn't used to being unable to read others. He was used to having them being unable to read him.
They finished dinner in silence, the tension between them low and tight. Like a thread pulled too far.
Whatever this was, it wasn't over.
Not even close.