Page 32 of Someone to Have
Nope, not mine, I remind myself.
She lets the door swing wider.
“I don’t want to marry you or anything else,” she mutters as she turns away, not bothering to give me a formal invitation—I don’t need one.
“Are you really sick?” I ask as I follow her to the kitchen. I take in her messy braid, T-shirt, and the yoga pants that hug every one of her curves. It’s easy to imagine peeling them off her. Too easy.
She spins on her heel and grabs the plate from me. “Thanks for dinner. As you can see, I’m fine.”
There’s an open bottle of wine on the counter with a nearly empty glass next to it. I fill it, take another wine glass from her cabinet, and give myself a generous pour as she settles in at the kitchen table.
She mumbles something under her breath before taking a bite.Heat courses through me when she groans. “I can’t believe you cook like this. You havetwosignature dishes?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve got a whole repertoire.” I carry the glasses to the table and take the seat across from her. “Just you wait.”
“Do you cook like this when it’s just you in Germany? Or do you have a…” She waves her fork in the air.
“A girlfriend?” I get a strange satisfaction telling myself she’s jealous at the thought.
She nods, a blush rising to her cheeks.
“No girlfriend.”
“I’m sure it’s not hard to find a woman you can cook for. Or a whole line of them.”
“Less hassle cooking for one,” I say. “But I like cooking for Rhett.” I lean forward. “And you.”
She’s not willing to admit she likes it, too, but we both know she does. At least I hope so. Toby really drove the final nail into the coffin of my reputation with that whole ‘manwhore’ thing.
“Rhett just accused me of stress cooking.”
She grins around a bite of chicken and mushroom. “Do you stress cook?”
“I’ve never thought about it that way, but I guess you could say I comfort cook. It calms me, you know?”
“Sort of. My mom was the same way, especially during hockey season. She was famous for her stews and chilis. She loved having Toby’s friends over for big, loud team dinners.” Her smile is nostalgic. “She lost more than one dining room chair over the years because somehow the guys always ended up wrestling or diving over the table.”
“Yeah, I caught some of that vibe at your dad’s house tonight.”
She wrinkles her nose and the smattering of freckles across the bridge winks at me. “My family is boisterous to say the least.”
“Where do you fit into that?” I ask. It’s a question that’s been on my mind the whole evening.
She rips off a piece of bread and studies it. “They’re entertaining to watch.”
“You don’t participate?” I notice she’s not making eye contact.
“Not in the reindeer games my family likes to play.”
“It seems like they take competitiveness to a new level.”
“Ping-pong death matches,” she says, popping the bread into her mouth. “You should fit right in, but I stopped making an effort on team Maxwell years ago. Got a little old when it always felt like someone was making a big sacrifice to have me on their team.”
“It wouldn’t be a sacrifice.”
Her blue eyes slam into mine before she focuses on her plate again.
“What happened tonight?” I ask.
