For What It's Worth

Chapter Eight : Kiss Me Quick

"What are you doing here?" Sam stands at the sound of her voice.

She's in a pair of black leggings with a grey vest over the top of a matching black sports bra. Her dark hair is tied back, showing her full face. She's not wearing makeup – not that I can tell. Her skin is refreshed and dewy.

"I thought I should start working out more. I want to a bit more healthy, you know. I was also looking at... erm... taking a self-defense class that they do here. Maybe, I don't know." She explains, awkwardly. "That seems pretty cool."

Self-defense? Luckily, she doesn't notice the subtle worried looks between Sam and I.

"Yeah that is cool." I break the quiet that was hanging between us all for a little too long. "You're welcome to join us when we're in here, if you want to."

"Sure. Have you just finished?" I nod in answer.

"Isabelle, are you coming to the party later?" Sam questions. I wince.

"What party?" She looks from each of us. Shit.

"I was going to invite you, I swear." I tell her, holding my hands up. That is actually true. "I totally forgot about it. It's at Wesley's. Yes, it's actually at Wesley's this time." That makes her smile. "He said he'd love to have you there and if you want to bring your friends or whatever then that's fine."

"Okay sure. That sounds fun."

**

After a cooling shower, I come into the kitchen where Isabelle is making lunch. She's still in the same clothes as when I last saw her, except she's let her dark brown waves fall past her shoulders. I silently sit at the island, aimlessly scrolling through my phone.

She hums a soft tune as she is mixing her ingredients together. I often glance over the top of my Instagram feed, checking what she's doing. She subtly bounces her head and swings her hips to whatever song she's humming.

"How did you learn to cook?" She whips her head straight around, my presence unanticipated by her. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"Did we not learn from you sneaking up on me last time?" She chuckles.

"I wasn't sneaking. I've been here for like five minutes." She lets out an embarrassed sigh. "So how did you learn to cook?" I repeat. "Did your parents teach you?"

"No." She holds the bowl under one arm, mixing with the other. "I learnt on my own."

"Oh s-." She interrupts me before I can get the next word out.

"Can you cook?" I place my phone on the surface, face down so I'm not distracted by it.

"Not really." I brush it off. I've not really had to cook. When living on my own, I would buy ready cooked meals or make rice or noodles. Not that that's really cooking.

"I'll teach you a few things, if you want." She suggests.

"You're talking about cooking right?" I flirt, wiggling my eyebrows and she rolls her eyes trying her hardest not to smile.

"Have you heard of MasterChef or Bake Off?" I shake my head. "Well, they're both British shows. I've learnt a lot of recipes, cool tips and ideas from them." She places the bowl down. "Did your parents not teach you how to cook?"

"No, not really." I shrug.

"I suppose other people cooked for you, did they?" She teases me.

"That is so not true." I chuckle. "My Dad was a good cook..." I trail off, a hotness spreading through me. There's a pause in the conversation, stopping the ping pong serves and returns of speech.