The Spark Between Us by Stacy Travis

Chapter Thirteen

Sarah

I feltterrible for poor Bella, forced outside when she loved being around people. Braden’s text didn’t explain why he’d locked her out, but maybe he didn’t want her jumping all over him when he had a perfectly willing woman to do that and more.

As soon as his truck pulled out of the driveway, I opened my bedroom door and went back to the kitchen. I couldn’t unsee the image of Braden with his hands all over his date, and I fought off the gloomy feeling that this would be my reality for the next six months—a sideline observer of Braden’s dating life.

It’s fine. You have your own life, a celibate one.

Bella was overjoyed to get back into the house and showed it by jumping on me and licking my stomach.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry you got banished. It’s us girls now,” I told her. She and I had a lot in common—both single females, hungry, and home on a Thursday night. And we both pined for the same guy. Seeing my similarity to a dog made me at least try to rein in my ridiculous, untethered feelings for my roommate. I had a tiny shred of pride. Somewhere.

Bella ran in circles around my legs before trotting off to find a ball, which she dropped at my feet.

“You want to play?” I took the ball and threw it outside, leaving the door open. As usual, she chased the ball and lay down on the grass, chomping it rather than bringing it back. The breeze from the yard felt nice as I puttered around in the kitchen.

I poured a generous glass of cabernet and admired the well-designed kitchen, modern with a white tile backsplash behind the stainless steel stove, white painted glass cabinets, a poured concrete countertop that matched the one on top of the island.

The morning Braden found me sitting there after my car accident felt like months ago instead of two weeks. If anything could put an abrupt halt to whatever niggling idea festered in my brain that Braden and I might someday date, seeing him with his hand up another woman’s shirt did the trick.

I planned to bury my feelings in chocolate, right after I ate my single serving salad.

That’s right. With no one here to judge my cooking skills or lack thereof, I went premade on the salad, homemade on the chocolate truffle brownies.

I gratefully unwrapped the boxed Greek salad, sprinkled dressing on top, and shook it to mix the ingredients. Done. Then I poked around the kitchen, taking out measuring cups and spoons. Everything was exactly where I’d expect it to be.

Braden’s kitchen had a logic that spoke to me—cooking utensils and potholders within reach of the stove, silverware and plates near the dishwasher for easy put away. Even the wine opener was exactly where I’d have put it if this was my house.

I mixed up the brownie batter without consulting a recipe because—please—it wasn’t my first chocolate rodeo. A pan of brownies was always the perfect complement to a dinner of salad and wine. And the wine was going down easily, maybe too easily.

So I poured another half a glass and cranked some music up on my phone. Who needed a pole? I could get my dance on while the oven preheated. Braden wouldn’t be back for hours, and I ought to enjoy myself.

Then I added a healthy pour of bittersweet chocolate chips to the batter. They were my secret ingredient—the mixture of milk chocolate in the batter and semi-sweet chips gave the brownies just the right level of sweetness.

I’d finish them with bittersweet chocolate buttercream frosting and a sprinkling of sea salt and try not to eat the entire pan myself. But if Braden brought his handsy date back here after dinner, all bets were off.