Page 24 of Drunk on You

I watch him saunter out, trying not to notice how nice his ass looks in his charcoal-gray pants, knowing this was strategic on his part so he can get a head start while I’m stuck here, hanging out with my dad. But that’s fine because his little bit of a head start isn’t going to mean shit when I present the better idea on Friday.

“All right, Anastasia,” Dad says, shaking me from my thoughts, “you ready to see your office?”

“More than ready.”

chapter ten

ANASTASIA

“It’s late.”

Dad’s voice has me jumping out of my skin as I look up from my computer and control my breathing to slow my heart rate.

“It is?”

I glance at the clock. Six o’clock. Hardly late. Hell, some days at Benson, six o’clock was when I would down some espresso, get a second wind, and work until ten or eleven.

“Your fiancé left over an hour ago,” he points out. “Did you two not carpool this morning?”

Shit, I didn’t even consider that.

“We weren’t sure how it would all work with today being my first day. I didn’t want to hold him up.”

“Go home,” Dad says gently. “Tomorrow is another day.”

I want to argue, but I bite my tongue, knowing he’s testing me. This is what he doesn’t want—his CEO working until all hours of the night instead of being home with their family.

“You’re right,” I agree, saving what I was working on so I can work on it at home. It’s not like I’m actually going home to spend time with my fake fiancé.

When I get home, I park inside the garage and notice Julian is home since his car and truck are both present. I close the garage door and then head in through the mudroom that’s located off the side of the kitchen, immediately getting a whiff of what smells like garlic.

Mmm, Italian.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I didn’t eat lunch or dinner because I was too busy working on my pitch for the Ronan Flynn collaboration.

I’m expecting Julian to be at the table with takeout, so I’m taken aback when I instead find him standing in front of the stove, dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a white shirt, his feet bare, stirring something in a pot.

“Are you cooking?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He glances my way and chuckles. “No, I just thought it would be fun to pour a bunch of ingredients into a pot and watch them boil.”

I roll my eyes at his sarcasm. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“You don’t know a lot of things about me,” he says dryly.

“Touché.”

“When I was growing up, my mom said everyone should know how to cook, clean, and do laundry,” he says, continuing to stir whatever’s in the pot. “She made my sister and me cook with her several times a week, clean our own bedrooms and bathroom, and do our own laundry.” He shrugs. “I have someone come in to clean and do my laundry now that I can afford it and am busy with work, but I prefer to cook for myself rather than go out to eat or order in every night. It’s healthier, and it tastes better.”

I stare at him in shock and awe at how normal that sounds. I’ve never done any of the above, but I’m not about to mention that and sound like a spoiled brat. It’s not that I think I’m above it, but unlike his mom, mine never considered cooking, cleaning, or doing laundry a teachable life lesson. She came from money, and from the time I was born, all of that stuff was always handled.

Unlike my friends though, I only had a nanny when it was necessary—when Mom would attend engagements with my dad that I didn’t go to. She preferred to devote her time to me, and I believe that’s why we were so close. She was my best friend, and I miss her so much.

“So, you think your cooking tastes better, huh?” I say, poking the beast. “Clearly, you’ve never been to Enzo’s in London. It has three Michelin stars.” I walk over to the stove and look into the pot, spotting the tomato sauce. “One of them was for his sauce alone.” I’m making that up, but Julian doesn’t know that.

“No, I’ve never been to Enzo’s,” he admits, taking the spoon and lifting it to my mouth. “And I’ve obviously never been given an award for my food, but I have been told my sauce is delicious.” As the last word rolls off his tongue, the spoon touches my lips, and I still in my spot.

“Blow,” he murmurs, his green eyes filled with mischief.

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