Page 41 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

“Fine, show me this house of yours and make me dinner.”

She makes it sound like she’s allowing me the opportunity to do so. Honestly, I’m not sure she’s wrong because I think it’s an honor she wouldn’t give many.

As I open the door, Peanut Butter jets between our legs, going inside first and heading straight for his bed in the corner of the living room, next to my couch. There are others in the primary bedroom, my workout room, and the back porch, but he’s often on the couch or my bed too. He basically has run of the place everywhere he goes.

I close the door behind us, watching as Dani looks around my house and wondering what she thinks. “It’s nothing special or fancy,” I tell her, downplaying the importance of the space.

I know it’s not like my brothers’ or sister’s places, which vary from ridiculously huge and expensive to slightly less large and pricey. Cole’s suburban paradise is the exception, but it was Janey’s first, and they do still have the downtown building as an investment. But I don’t need real estate. When I bought this place, what I needed was a home away from the Harrington name, and this was it for me, something I bought and paid for with money I earned with my own labor. I don’t honestly know if Mom and Dad helped my siblings with their first homes, but it doesn’t matter because I wouldn’t have accepted a dime from them no matter what.

“It’s lovely,” Dani says. “Really clean too. Especially with a dog living here… and Peanut Butter.” She fights to hide the grin that’s trying to spread across her lips. I think, for Dani, that’s another version of an apology, acknowledging her overreaction.

“Well, now that I’ve impressed you with my ability to wield a vacuum and mop, wait till you see what I can do with a skillet and some chicken breasts.”

Peanut Butter’s head pops up at the word ‘chicken’.

“You already ate,” I remind him, and he lays his head back down with a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes, which is somehow something he recently learned to do.

Dani’s head swivels from the dog to me, her eyes wide. “Did he roll his eyes?”

I nod. “Yeah. I think my niece, Grace, taught him. She’s eleven, going on twenty-three, and solidly in her pre-teen, adolescent angst era. According to my brother, she rolls her eyes approximately eleven hundred times per day, so I think Peanut Butter picked up on it.”

Dani looks back to Peanut Butter, her smile beaming now. “You two are the cutest.”

I’m pretty sure she mostly means my dog is cute, but she included me in that total of two, so I’m taking the win. I preen, strutting to the kitchen and pulling out a barstool, inviting her to sit and oversee my work.

She settles in, undoing her hair while I wash my hands. The time in the braid has left soft waves in the strands, and I long to run my fingers through them to feel their silkiness over my hands. But I don’t make a move toward her. Things are way too tenuous for that. First, I need to wow her with my culinary skills.

I gather my ingredients from the fridge and pantry, lining everything up on the counter, and then pull out a skillet and big pot. I start water to boil in the pot, salting it generously, and see approval in Dani’s eyes.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” I tease, and she has the decency to duck her chin as she blushes. “I told you I can cook.”

I turn the heat on the skillet, letting some oil come to temperature while I season two chicken breasts and then dredge them in a flour mixture. Once the oil’s ready, I lay the chicken in and then wash my hands again.

“What’re we having?” Dani asks, eyeing the ingredients.

I turn around, leaning back on the counter and staying across the room when I say this. “Don’t start getting ideas in that head of yours and jumping to the worst conclusion at the slightest provocation the way you like to do. I just wanted to make something I’m comfortable with so I didn’t fuck it up.” She cocks her head, expecting the worst. I lick my lips, diving into dangerous waters with concrete weighing down both feet. “It’s called Marry Me Chicken.”

She laughs, and I don’t think either of us expected that reaction, given the look of surprise in her eyes.

“It’s pan fried chicken, pasta, and cream sauce, with sun-dried tomatoes and spinach. That okay?” I ask.

Dani shakes her head, saying no, but what comes out of her mouth is, “That sounds amazing.”

Relieved, my shoulders drop an inch because she’s still sitting at the counter and not running for the door at the too-terrifying recipe name. “Good, but don’t expect a proposal over dinner. No falling in love with me.” It’s a joke, and I laugh, but as I return to the stove to flip the chicken, there’s a knot in my chest that wasn’t there a second ago.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who needs that warning,” she reminds me.

“Touché.”

Dani watches as I cook, and thankfully, I don’t screw up the recipe I make at least twice a month, usually packaging up the leftovers for the next night’s dinner. It’s comfortable and easy as we talk about this and that, getting to know each other.

“Do you do this a lot?” she asks as I’m plating our food.

“What?”

“Date. Cook girls dinner.”

I pause, pinning her with a look. “You’re the first woman other than my family who’s been here since the real estate agent who sold it to me dropped off the spare keys. I don’t date much, and when I do, it’s usually something like Applebee’s two-for-twenty before we go back to her place so I can leave after.” I see the hard edge come back to Dani’s gaze. “Because that’s how they want it. I’m not exactly the ‘take home to Mom and Dad’ sort, am I? I’ve made my peace with that because I’m not taking girls home to my parents, either.”

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