“Okay, maybe that’s not a terrible idea.”
“It’s a genius idea!” she gloated. “You’re welcome. As payment, Killian and I will accept the reservations at whatever exclusive restaurant Ezra was planning on taking you to. I think that is only fair.”
“Oh, you don’t think he would have just made a reservation at one of his own?”
She barked out a laugh. “Because that’s romantic? No, Molly. He wasn’t going to take you to one of the restaurants he owns named after one of his ex-girlfriends. He’s not that tacky. It would have been someplace good though. For sure.”
“If he asks, and that’s a big if, I’ll see what I can do about the reservation.”
“You’re the best!”
“I know. You’re also the best.” I felt instantly lighter after talking to Vera. Lighter, but also heavier. I was no closer to having this whole Ezra thing figured out than before the phone call, but I had a friend that always had my back and was willing to listen to every single one of my freak outs. It was okay to suck at relationships as long as I was good at this one. “Thanks, Vere.”
“Let me know what happens.” She told someone she would be right there. “I gotta go.”
“Me too.”
We hung up and I kind of tried to focus on work. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was the hardest thing I did all day. By five o’clock, I was exhausted from staring at shades of gray and trying to figure out which one would appeal to the widest audience.
Ugh.
“You leaving?” I asked Emily as she gathered her things.
She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, yes. Want to walk out with me?”
“Yes, please!” I quickly clicked the right buttons, sending Henry the updated, but not final, versions of the graphics and shut down my desk. Emily waited for me to put my computer in my bag and sling it over my shoulder before she started walking toward the elevator bank.
“How’s the Black Soul project?” she asked when we were in an elevator heading down to the parking garage.
“Terrible,” I groaned. “It’s not at all what I thought it was going to be.”
“That sucks,” she sympathized. Her expression shifted and she waggled her eyebrows at me. “But at least you’re getting some action, right? Henry’s such a gentle lover.”
My entire body shuddered at her joke. “Oh my god, that’s so gross. That man is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
She turned serious again. “Wait, he hasn’t tried to—”
I quickly shook my head. I didn’t know why I was so worried about her thinking the wrong thing. If he’d tried anything again with me, it would be his fault not mine. So why was I so worried about people thinking the wrong thing? I was the innocent person in this whole debacle. He was the assailant. I shouldn’t even want to stick up for him. Still, I said, “No, he hasn’t tried to touch me again, since I emailed Doris. But he’s always undressing me with his eyes and staring at my chest. He might not be touching me, but whatever he is doing is just as bad.”
“I can’t believe this hasn’t gotten back to his dad. Mr. Tucker would shut that shit down so fast.”
“You think?” For some reason, I wasn’t so sure.
“For the sake of his business,” Emily nodded as she went on. “He doesn’t want a lawsuit or a bad reputation just because his son is a pervert.”
That was true. Even if Mr. Tucker didn’t believe everything I had to say, surely he would step in just to avoid legal action. Sexual harassment wasn’t a small thing and Henry was set up to take over the entire company in a few years. Maybe I should revisit going over HR’s head.
My phone dinged when we got off the elevator, so I pulled it out of my purse on my way to my car. “See you tomorrow, Em.”
“Later, babe,” she called back.
I threw my laptop in the back and settled into the driver’s seat with my phone in hand. An email had popped up and I almost didn’t check it because I was sure that it was Henry giving me shit for the work I’d just uploaded.
It wasn’t Henry though. It was Ezra. And the subject read: Hey.
Not able to contain my curiosity, I opened the email against my better judgment.
Call me when you get a minute.
~Ezra
I drove home first, not wanting to seem super available. Plus, the parking garage got terrible reception. Plus, plus, I had to talk myself into it and work myself up and find some courage in my terrified little soul to push the buttons.
When I got home, I changed into leggings and settled on my couch with a salad I picked up on the way home. Then I called Ezra.
For a second I didn’t think he was going to answer. The phone rang just long enough that I prepared myself to hang up before it asked for a message.
But then he answered, his voice clear, deep and tender. “Molly.”
God, why couldn’t he just say hello like a normal person? It would be so much easier on my flailing heart. “Hi, Ezra.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt you at work.”
“I just got home.”
“Are you coming in to paint tonight?” There was something in his voice that sounded like hope and it did damaging things to my resolve to keep my distance.
“I am not,” I told him trying not to sound disappointed. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner service.”
“Oh, well, when do you think you’ll be in again?”
Was this all he wanted to talk about? When I would be back to paint his mural? I was less nervous now. “Saturday morning, I think.”
“Well, damn. I have a thing Saturday so I won’t be there.”
I hadn’t realized he needed to be there. “Is it okay that I still come in if you’re not there?”
“It’s fine,” he assured me, that smooth, rich voice of his chasing me through the phone. “Bianca is yours for as long as you need her. Come in whenever you’d like. I just haven’t seen you all week.”
His disappointment came out of nowhere, kicking me right in the butterflies. “Oh.”
“So I think we should fix that,” he continued. “Are you free Sunday night?”
“Um, to paint?” I slammed my eyes shut at my effort to play cool. What was wrong with me?
His chuckle was genuine and rumbly, and God, why did I want to avoid this man again? “No, not to paint. To go on a date. With me.”
I couldn’t think of the right thing to say so I sat there silent for way too long. Clearing my throat I went for totally smooth. “Uh, s-sure. That sounds great.” I stared at my freezer. Forget the salad. I needed to go straight to the ice cream tonight.
He was unruffled by my inability to be as cool as him. “Can I pick you up?”
Vera’s plan blared through my head and I sat up with more confidence. “How about I cook for you and we stay in?”
I expected him to argue with me, sure that he’d heard the rumors of my tragic cooking and would do whatever it took to escape a meal that could end in death—or possibly serious food poisoning.
Instead, he let out a sigh of relief and said, “Actually, that sounds amazing. I’d love that.”
Softening, I smiled and opened up all at once, I relaxed into a feeling that this was right, that this would be good. Something like anticipation and hope and feelings of rightness. “How about six?”
“Do you need me to bring anything?”
“Wine,” I told him. “Bring lots of wine.” Because when we couldn’t eat anything, we would at least be able to drink.
“See you Sunday, Molly.”
“Okay, Ezra.”
I painted that night. Cloudy skies with sun crowned horizons. Eyes that were deep and mysterious and soft. A delicate hand cradled in a strong, masculine one. All things that would have previously made me roll my eyes and embitter my cold, cruel, cynical heart.
Now I was halfway to infatuated and my painting was evidence that I’d lost my mind completely.
And maybe, possibly… my heart.
Twenty
Sunday night came too quickly. One second I’d been dodging Henry at work and spending all of Saturday working on Bianca’s mural. The next, I had done my hair like whoa, spent thirty minutes picking out the right lip stain, and dressed in my new distressed skinny jeans and sheer, lacy black tunic with strappy cami underneath.
My outfit sounded casual, but it had taken me the entire week to pick it out. Ugh. Why wasn’t the not-showered-ratty-pajama look in?
Society was the worst.
Feminists unite!
Also, lazy people.
I would also take homebodies.
Now I stood at my stove, slaving away over spaghetti and meatballs and panicking because Ezra was going to be here any minute. And I knew I had gotten myself into this mess, that it had been my stupid idea, but now that the time was almost here to push Ezra away with my terrible cooking, I found that I didn’t want him to know I couldn’t handle myself in the kitchen.
Like at all.
I’d even tried tonight!
Spaghetti and meatballs was something I could usually throw together. I mean, how hard was it to boil water and pour a jar of sauce into a pan? Not hard. Not hard at all.
But I’d taken so long to get ready that I’d gotten a late start on the meatballs. In order to cook them quicker so they could have time to marinate in the marinara I’d bought, I had turned the heat up too high and burned the shit out of them. The onions I’d tried to sauté with them looked like slimy black slugs. I had been under the impression that if I kept cooking the onions they would caramelize. But that theory had been so very wrong.
I was pretty sure they were going to taste like an old cigarette. But I didn’t have time to start over.
They were currently simmering in marinara sauce while I prayed that the tomatoes would hide how blackened and unappetizing they were. Not to mention the charcoal lumps meatballs. They were in no better shape. I’d slammed a lid on the pan so I didn’t have to look at it. Also, to protect my outfit from the spitting red sauce.
It was probably poisonous by now anyway.
Or nuclear.
To add to the chaos, my noodles stuck to the bottom of their pot and I’d over-dressed the salad. The giant bowl I’d grabbed at the store earlier was approximately one-fourth of the way filled with soggy spring mix.
“I can fix this,” I told my colander, setting it in the sink and preparing it for the noodles I needed to drain in approximately two minutes. I started to hunt for more lettuce in an effort to give the salad volume when a knock sounded on my door.
Ezra. Damn it! Of all the nights to be on time.
I’d texted him earlier today with my apartment number and door code to get in the building. Because apparently, he terrified me in a relationship sense, but I trusted him enough that I didn’t think he was a serial killer.
I spun around, pressing a hand to my forehead and wishing I could make this all just disappear. Was it too much to tell him I had been vandalized? That this was the work of a vindictive neighbor? Don’t start sweating. Don’t start sweating. Whatever you do don’t start sweating!
Oh my god, I’m a disaster.
Finally, I faced the door, still contemplating shutting off all the lights and pretending nobody was home.
My feet betrayed me by walking toward the entryway. My hands joined the mutiny and somehow, despite what my brain was telling them to do, unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door for Ezra.
He stood there waiting patiently in casual, dark wash jeans and a navy-blue oxford with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. There was a bottle of wine in his hand and a half smile on his handsome face.
Be still my heart.
It had only been a little over a week since we’d been together, but the sight of him here, at my apartment, looking like he always did, made my breath catch.
“Hi,” he said.
Hi.
He’d said hi. Not Molly. Not just my name. But hi.
The way he said my name always did funny things to my insides—like turn them into warm honey. But this simple hi was shockingly intimate. It wasn’t bold, familiar or demanding. It was gentle. And tentative. And sexy as hell.
God, this man.
“Hi,” I managed to return breathlessly. “Come on inside?”
He stepped in my apartment and set the wine down on the side table. The door clicked shut behind him, then his mouth found mine without hesitation. I wasn’t even sure how it had happened or when he’d pulled me against him or how I’d gotten pushed against the wall. But there we were, kissing hello in my hallway.
It started slowly as we explored each other again, relearning the touch and taste of each other. He tasted like mint and smelled so very good. I couldn’t get enough of him or this kiss. I wanted more. Needed more.
Apparently, so did he. Our innocent hello kiss quickly turned into a building appetite for each other. His mouth was addicting, and the way it moved against mine made my toes curl and my belly heat. My hands landed on his broad shoulders while his wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him. I willingly went, letting my chest press against his, enjoying every inch of his hard, toned body and the way he bent down to meet my mouth.
His tongue brushed over my bottom lip and I opened my mouth, letting him deepen the kiss. My teeth grazed his bottom lip, knowing it would drive him crazy. I was inordinately pleased when it did. He groaned in the back of his throat, making a sound that I felt all the way to my core.
His hands splayed over my ribs, his thumbs resting just beneath my bra. He moved his kisses to the line of my jaw, trailing down my throat. I lost the ability to think when he kissed me like this…to remember all the reasons I had been afraid of seeing him again. We were nothing but lips and tongues and teeth. And as his hands got braver and braver, I thought I would explode with anticipation.
“It’s a good thing we decided to have dinner here,” he murmured against my skin.
Reality crashed over me like ice cold water, releasing me from the spell his mouth had cast. “Dinner!” I pushed him away and sprinted to the kitchen, readying myself for the horror that awaited me. “Oh no!” My noodles bubbled over, splashing big drops of water all over the burner. The sauce hissed angrily and I realized I had forgotten to turn it down. “Oh no!” I repeated when I remembered the garlic bread in the oven. Not wasting time with pot holders, I dove for it, retrieving a dark brown, oblong rock instead of bread.
I juggled it back and forth before eventually tossing the inedible hunk of carbs in the sink.
Staring at my burned meatballs, charred bread, overly-cooked noodles and limp lettuce made me seriously reevaluate what I was doing with my life.
“Awesome,” I snarled at the unused colander.
“Is everything okay?” Ezra asked carefully from behind me.
A hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. No. Everything was not okay. But I didn’t even know where to start or how to explain. I mean, the evidence spoke for itself. But what was I going to do now?
I made an exasperated sound.
Ezra peered over my shoulder into the sink. “Was that for dinner?”
Dropping my head into my hands, I tried to think of a solution, some way out of this mess, but nothing came. I had zero ideas except this would be a fantastic time for a zombie apocalypse to breakout.
The worst part was now I didn’t have a best friend because I was going to have to kill Vera for even suggesting that I cook for Ezra. This was her fault. What had she been thinking?
What had I been thinking listening to her?
“I ruined it,” I admitted to my hands. “It’s totally ruined.”
He made a sound that could have been a laugh or possibly a wince. Maybe it was the sound he made before he ran away. “It can’t be that bad.”
I moved out of the way so he could look for himself. Crossing my arms over my chest, I waited for him, in all his restaurant owning glory, to determine time of death on this solid but failed effort.
He poked at the bread. “
Oh,” he said. Then he moved over to the noodles. They had been soaking in the pot since I’d given up the idea of draining and serving them. “Huh.” Passing by the salad, he sniffed at it. “I don’t… I’m not sure what to say.” He reached over and flicked off the burner that had still been heating the meatballs. “Do I want to know what’s under there?”
I lifted my head and met his amused gaze. “I’m fine if we want to leave that one a mystery.”
He chuckled, surveying the messy, ruined scene once again. “Molly, I… You… What went wrong?”
My eyes widened as the full weight of my bad choices were realized. I had invited Ezra Baptiste to my apartment knowing I couldn’t cook. The man owned four of the most successful restaurants in Durham. He sometimes filled in at Bianca because he “knew his way around a kitchen.” He had probably eaten five star meals every day for the last decade of his life. At the very least, multiple times a week.
This was the man I had invited over to scare away with my cooking.
Mission accomplished.
“I-I don’t even know where to begin,” I told him. God, this was humiliating. My entire face flamed red, spreading a splotchy blush from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. I pressed my hand to my mouth and wrapped my other arm around my waist. I needed someone to console me. Apparently, that someone was myself.
Would it be totally out of line to make him leave? It seemed like a better option than having him witness this total humiliation.
Finally, when the silence had stretched to uncomfortable and neither of us had any idea what to say to make this better, I blurted, “It’s your fault! You started kissing me and… and then this happened!”
Our gazes clashed across the small space between us and something shifted inside him, something widening and deepening and spreading wings that were bigger than my entire apartment.
He smiled, prompting me to say, “Everything was time sensitive and you… distracted me.”
“Don’t move.” He walked back to the entryway and returned with the bottle of wine he’d brought with him. “We should open this.” He looked around for a second, then asked. “Do you have a cork screw?”
Opposites Attract: The complete box set Page 55
