Page 78 of Resisting the Grump

How could I not be pleased? The meal before me was almost more mouthwatering than the man who’d prepared it. Clearly, the perfectionist apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. There was nothing haphazard about the way he’d plated each hunk of lobster and fluffy cloud of potatoes. And the carefully curled lemon twists perched at the edge of the plate were expertly executed.

“This is almost too pretty to eat,” I confessed.

“That’s how I feel every time I see you,” he said, arriving at the edge of the table with a sly smile and a silver gravy boat full of golden sauce. “May I?”

My heart swelled. Up until that moment, I thought I knew what I wanted from a relationship, and it all seemed so reasonable. But maybe my disastrous dating adventures happened because I was afraid to dream bigger. I mean, it never occurred to me in my wildest dreams that I might meet a hunk who’d delight in drizzling fancy butter over my food! “Yes, please.”

He poured it on slowly and purposefully, and I was glad. I wanted to burn the moment into my memory forever. The whole thing was so surreal.

I licked my lips and caught him looking, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he drifted over to his record player, removed an album from its sleeve, and lowered the needle gently. Oh sure, I thought, now play the music soft. It was something I didn’t recognize, but I liked it right away.

“Yusef Lateef,” he said, reading my mind.

He slid into the chair across from me, his gaze weighty and warm.

I raised my glass. “May it taste as good as it looks.”

He smiled and met me halfway, the light clink of our glasses feeling like closure and a fresh start all at once.

“To answer your earlier question,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I made an extra lobster you can break into after dinner if you really want a crack at it."

Wow. An extra lobster. He must’ve been even more horrified by my bare fridge than I realized. His leftovers on any given day were probably Michelin-star quality. And that was just one aspect of his unrelatable life. He had literal celebrity contacts. A sexy convertible I only pretended to think was crass. A body built for a cologne commercial. He may have been the guy next door, but there was no denying he wasn’t—and could never really be—a normal neighbor.

“So we can have lobster rolls tomorrow.”

I hadn’t been planning to stay over.

“I’ll make some up for you.”

So he didn’t expect me to stay.

“Speaking of which,” he said, his playful eyes sparkling, “Text me when you get home tonight.”

Was he sending me home? Before I could say I wasn’t staying?! How dare he!

“Obviously, you’re welcome to stay if you want. I just can’t guarantee Simba won’t step on your head if you fall asleep.”

“I wasn’t going to stay.”

“I figured.” He held my gaze until my lower body clenched.

Was this a blatant attempt at reverse psychology? “Did you go to all this trouble because you want me to sleep over?” I tried to put the memory of him teasing his tongue down my back until it arched for him out of my mind, tried not to think about the possessive way he held my hips when he was bending me to his will.

“It would be more accurate to say I want to keep you up all night.”

“You’re insatiable,” I said, secretly loving the intensity of his attention.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Avery. Your body is graceful and fluid, and your smile is infectious. I don’t just want to sleep with you. I want to everything with you.”

I sighed.

He gestured towards my plate. “Please, start.”

I watched how he cut into his lobster and mimicked his actions. A moan escaped my throat as I savored my first flavorful bite. When I opened my eyes after the tasty explosion, Oliver was beaming at me, his pride and amusement palpable. And in that moment, something shifted. Settled. It felt as if clouds between us had lifted. Was this what moving on felt like?

“Well?”

“I’ll take a cookbook in every color,” I joked before gleefully stuffing my cheeks with lobster chunks again.

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