Chapter 43 - Spilled spices & losing language

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It felt like I hadn't been to Harry's penthouse in forever.

The anxiousness in my stomach grew with each consecutive light that lit up in the elevator, and the stupid music that was supposed to be calming was actually about to make me rip my own hair out. It didn't help that Harry was scrutinising me from the other side of the enclosed space, all long legs and cold gazes.

I didn't even notice we had stopped on the top floor until Harry's fingers cuffed gently around my wrist. "Come."

He led me down the familiar hallway and into the chrome and black themed kitchen, where the CEO had apparently already started cooking. Various pots and pans were scattered across the granite countertops, accompanied by a mess of spilled spices.

I giggles into the palm of my hand at the sight. "For someone who is always clean, this is a complete disaster."

"Cooking is messy," He replied, rolling his eyes in amusement. "Not that you would know, considering you're completely incompetent in the culinary area."

"Good thing the men I hang around with always seem to know how to cook."

Harry smiled as he opened the refrigerator. "How convenient for you, Norah. I'll have you know that I've always been a good cook. I actually used to work in a bakery, back in Cheshire."

The thought of a young, innocent Harry with bright eyes and flour dusted into his hair was enough to make me let out a soft sigh of adoration. The thought was also enough to make me laugh, because as soon as the image crossed my mind, it was replaced by older Harry in the same situation.

I would probably pay an entire months salary to see the 24 year old man wearing a little red apron and handing people various pastries. "I'm going to need pictures of that. Like, as soon as possible."

"Absolutely not."


"I do not have any pictures. Now I'm going to cook. And you aren't going to help, so sit down and get out of the way."

A small pout pulled at my lips. "Why can't I help?"

"Because you would burn down the entire kitchen," He snapped, raising a finger to point at the bar stool. "Now sit."

There was no point in arguing, because Harry was 100% correct. My cooking escapades never seemed to go as planned, and ever since the last time I had attempted to make pancakes over a year ago, I tended to stay out of the kitchen. Plus, it was rather endearing to sit and watch him work around the kitchen.

Whatever nervousness I had had before previously entering the apartment was wiped away as I sat with my chin propped up in my hands, watching the most gorgeous man who I had ever seen cook me dinner, humming to himself like I wasn't even in the room and occasionally bitting down on his lip in concentration.

"I meant it, you know," I blurted out.

The knife Harry was using to chop stopped right before it cut into the carrot. "Meant what?"

"What is said at the club."

"I know, Norah." The silverware bit into the vegetable with a snap. "I just do not understand why. But I know."

"What's not to understand?"

He shrugged and picked up the cutting board, then dumped the food into the boiling pot on the stove. "You told me everything you hate about me. And then you say you love me." Harry let out a slow breath as he set it back down on the countertop. "It doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, I know. It doesn't make sense to me either. I think it's just kind of and hate are really closely intertwined, you know? I think the only reason I can hate some things about you so much is because I -- I love you so much," I finished quietly, ducking my head to admire my fingernails.

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