Page 19 of Troubled Water
Still, despite some heated kisses where, with the cold lingering in DC, I’m transported to the tropics each and every time his lips make a meal of mine, I want more. Tonight’s invitation to dinner had me slipping on lace beneath my usual jeans and shirt. After all, his invitation is the kind of thing a man says to a woman when either he’s trying to impress her or seduce her.
God, I hope it’s the second.
But no—apparently, Parker is serious and wants something other than me on the menu. Now I stand in the middle ofhis sleek, modern kitchen, surrounded by enough stainless steel appliances to stock a professional chef’s dream, I wonder if the way my thong’s wedged between my ass cheeks in these jeans was worth it.
“I wasn’t expecting this.” I gesture to the kitchen as I take it in. It’s all shiny and perfect— like it belongs as a feature inFood Network Magazinebelonging to Bobby Flay or some other professional. Still, for as sleek as the kitchen is, Parker looks slightly disheveled in his casual button-down shirt—sleeves rolled up, apron tied over his jeans.
He’s holding his spatula like it’s all he has to disarm an army of hostile invaders instead of its intended use to scrape the bottom of the non-stick pan. His usually cocky arrogance has taken a hit, and I can tell he is nervous. Then again, I could determine that intel from the war of clam sauce flung in a perimeter around him. “I, uh, thought I’d go all out,” he says, a crooked grin on his face. “Figured a simple dinner wouldn’t cut it.”
I prop my chin on my hand while I sip my glass of wine, wondering how many people don’t get to see past the cold shell he erects to the man beneath. Studying him while he frantically turns back to the stove in an attempt to save our dinner, I can’t help but think how adorable he is in spite of my urge to laugh. Seeing the great Parker Thornton, super spook extraordinaire, be drowned under the troubled water of fettuccini is oddly endearing. “I’m impressed. What’s on the menu, Chef?”
“Well…” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder at the stove before he tosses the spatula into the sink with perfect precision. “I may have... miscalculated a few things.”
I slide off my stool and make my way to him. Peering over at the pot, I see the glob of what was supposed to be pasta. In the next one is a grayish goop that definitely doesn’t look delicious.Instead of making me want to swipe my finger through it, it bubbles ominously. “Miscalculated?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, turning back to face me. “The sauce was supposed to simmer, but it’s more like... boiling. And the pasta got a little, uh, goopy. Let’s not talk about the bread.”
I glance at the oven, where he marches over to pull out a tray of what used to be garlic bread. The edges are blackened, and I stifle a laugh.
“Okay, so it’s a little overdone,” I say, trying to hide my amusement.
Thorn lets out a sigh, wiping his hand across his forehead dramatically. “You’re being nice. It’s a disaster.”
I shake my head as I relax against the counter. “It’s not a disaster. It’s... charming.”
“Charming?” He raises an eyebrow. “So, burnt bread is your thing?”
“No, but a guy who tries really hard to impress me? Definitely my thing.”
He flashes a wicked smile at me for that, his shoulders relaxing a little, though I can still see the tension in his jaw. “Well, I wanted tonight to be perfect. I wanted to do something that’d show you I’m not the douche who ghosted you in Mexico.”
I walk over and gently tug at the apron he wrapped around his waist. “And you thought poisoning me was the way to go?”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair, his silver eyes sparkling with amusement. “Clearly, I need more practice.”
Catching the familiar scent of his cologne, my head spins headily. “Look, you don’t need to pull off some elaborate dinner to impress me. The fact that you even tried... that’s what matters. Trust me, I’ve seen worse.”
“Worse than this?”
“Way worse,” I say, smirking. “You should see some of the meals I’ve thrown together on the job site.”
His expression is clearly skeptical, as if he isn’t sure whether to believe me. Then he grins again, shaking his head. “Okay, fair enough. But I still wanted to make tonight special.”
“It is,” I say, resting a hand on his arm. “It’s special because it’s you. Because you let me see you like this—messy, unsure, and human. It’s kind of refreshing.”
He meets my eyes, and for a second, I see something soft there, something vulnerable. It is a side of him I rarely get to see, and I like it. A lot.
“I’m not usually good at this kind of thing,” he admits quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Romantic gestures and all that.”
“Well, you’re doing fine so far.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “You sure? Because I can still order pizza.”
I wrap my arms around his waist. “Pizza sounds perfect.”
The awkwardness melts away, and he lets out a deep breath. “Thank God. I thought I was going to have to eat my own cooking.”
Still grinning, I tease him gently. “You could always keep the bread. By tomorrow, it should be hard enough to set it as a doorstop or something.”
