“Don’t worry,” I say.
“But—”
“Err, shall we begin?” Jeff interrupts her protest.
Lana throws me a we’ll-settle-this-later stare, before turning to him and saying, “Sure.”
“Fantastic.” Jeff smiles as he announces the program for tonight. “For our first lesson, I wanted to start with something not too challenging, so I thought we should tackle pasta.”
Oh, he’s so loving this. I wonder if Jeff’s real calling is to teach cooking, rather than being my private chef.
“But to avoid making the class too boring,” he continues, “I’ve selected three separate courses: an American classic—homemade mac and cheese—a more elaborate ragù, and a risotto. Lots to do; we should get started.”
Lana smiles at me as she ties on her apron. “Yum, I’m already hungry,” she says. “Do we get to eat what we make afterward?”
“I think so.” I look at Jeff for confirmation.
“A table has been set for you in the main room,” he says. “We wouldn’t want any food to go to waste. Are we ready to start?”
We both nod, and Jeff launches into his explanation. “Since the ragù takes longer, we’ll start with it. Browned vegetables are at the base of every great ragù. A simple mix of carrots, celery, and for a more tasteful sauce, shallots instead of onions.”
I turn to Lana. “It only remains to be decided who gets to peel the onions.”
“Shallots,” Jeff corrects me. “And you only need to remove the outer layer; the veggie chopper will do the rest.” He points to a mini blender. “Please follow the recipe on page one of the course’s cookbook. There, you’ll find all the recipes of tonight’s class so you can try them again at home.”
Lana grabs a carrot, a peeler, and turns to me with a mischievous grin. “Last to peel the carrots does the dishes.”
***
Damn, making food from scratch is hard work. But also fun, especially with Lana as my cooking partner. Plus, Jeff is a wonderful teacher.
For an hour and a half we slaved over the stove, and now it’s time to enjoy the final product. In the main restaurant’s room, a table for two has been set for us. So, with Jeff’s help, we bring our plates and sit to have dinner.
“Very well,” Jeff says. “I suggest eating the saffron risotto first, as it’s the most delicate dish, then the mac and cheese, and finally the ragù. I’ve also selected a beautiful red from Napa that goes nicely with all three dishes. Enjoy.”
He withdraws back to the kitchen, leaving us to savor the food we made—with the exception of the homemade fettuccine. Jeff showed off making them from scratch to go with the ragù. In ten minutes, he mixed eggs, flour, and water, kneaded them together, rolled the dough into a thin sheet, and cut the fettuccine with a knife. The cutting was so quick and even that both Lana and I thought it was a magic trick. But tasting the final result, there’s no doubt the pasta is real.
“Mmm,” Lana moans after eating a forkful of risotto.
“Cheers to the chef.” I raise my glass to her.
“Cheers.” Lana clinks her glass against mine. “Jeff is amazing. I’m sure if I tried to cook this on my own, the risotto would turn out a disaster. I wish I could have him cooking at my house every day.”
The last statement comes out in a “what an impossible thing to wish for” tone that throws me off. Because having a private chef is one of the many things I take for granted.
Should I tell her now?
I’m aware that the more I wait, the harder it’ll be to explain everything I’ve kept from her. But I also don’t want to ruin the best second date ever by dropping the did-I-mention-I’m-kind-of-famous bomb mid-dinner.
“Yeah, right?” I laugh it off, uncomfortable.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, nothing you said. It’s about me.”
“What about you?” Lana asks.
Perfect second date or not, I have to fess up. Lana is a good person and has had enough lies spun to her already.
“I—” How do I tell her without sounding totally mental? “I haven’t been completely honest with you about my life.”
“Mm, yeah,” she says, surprising me. “I’ve noticed you get a little standoffish whenever I ask a personal question. I thought it was a British thing.”
“It’s not.”
“So, what is it?” Lana sits straighter, on the alert, a crease of worry crossing her forehead. “Are you secretly married, engaged, seeing someone else?” Her eyes flick to my left hand and back up.
“No, nothing like that,” I hurry to reassure her. “It’s about my job.”
“Oh.” Her back relaxes. “Is it about the secret project?”
“In part, yes.”
“Is it something criminal?” she asks, her tone light again. “Are you with the Mob?”
“No.” I can’t help but laugh. “Nothing illegal, I swear.”
“Then I can wait for whenever you’re ready to tell me,” she says, and goes back to eating her pasta with gusto.
Lana has no idea what she’s agreeing to stay in the dark about.
Indecision must show on my face, because she reaches her hand across the table to place it on top of mine. “Hey, I don’t mind waiting, really. I haven’t told you every little thing about myself, either. We can take things slow. Okay?”
Lana sounds so reassuring, and the temptation to wait is so big. I let myself believe it’s okay not to come clean tonight.
Without the weight of my secret hanging over me, dinner becomes even more fantastic. I can be myself with Lana, no need to keep my guard up, no preconceptions, and no fear of being used.
Just us.
***
On the way back to her house, Lana is quieter in the car, but at the same time she’s… more. She keeps her gaze trained out the window but reaches for my hand where it sits on the armrest between us, curling her fingers into mine. Streetlights dart past us one by one and, in their fleeting light, whenever I dare take my eyes off the road for a short peek, I notice a slight blush on her cheeks.
What is she thinking? Does this mean I get invited in tonight?
“Here we are.” I pull up in front of her house and, shifting the car into park, I turn to face her.
Her I-have-secrets smile makes an appearance. “Any early flights to catch tomorrow morning?” she asks, eyes sparkling even in the dark.
“No,” I say, the sound cut off in my throat.
“Nightcap?”
“I’d love to,” I say, and again I can’t keep my voice from going a little husky.
When we get out of the car, it’s late enough I don’t have to worry about indiscreet eyes, so I leave my baseball cap in the car and follow her to the front door.
Lana lets us in, and I wonder how this is going to work. Are we going to pretend I really did just come in for coffee? Did I just come in for coffee? She’s a mystery, and I love it.
Lana closes the door behind us and leans against it without turning on the lights. She smiles at me again in the semi-darkness, her mouth as inviting as sin. I go to her, loving the delicate curve of her neck as she inches her chin up to meet my lips.
So I guess coffee isn’t on anyone’s mind.
Good.
We kiss and tumble through the house toward her bedroom, removing clothes on the way, but when we get there we find the bed already occupied by the cats.
“Sorry,” Lana says. “I’ll get rid of them.”
I can’t help but laugh as she grabs one cat under each arm and hurries out of the room. When she returns, she shuts the door firmly behind herself as she says, “Dropped them on the couch. I hope they won’t mind sleeping there for a night.”
I can tell the pause has made her shy. So I slow down. I pull her to me, pressing my lips on her neck, just below her ear. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.” My mouth leaves a trail of kisses all the way to her collarbone.
&nb
sp; I take my time kissing all her hesitations away, until Lana gets bold again and her hands land squarely on my chest as she pushes me backward onto the covers…
***
The next morning I wake up with a sneeze, my nose itchy. I push up on my elbows to find a cat’s tail tickling my chin.
Didn’t we shut the little buggers out last night?
The thought triggers much more pleasant memories of the end of my date with Lana, which make sleeping with a feline ass so close to my face an acceptable price to pay.
Lana stirs next to me, without waking up. Careful not to disturb her, I grab my phone, lower the screen brightness to the darker setting, and text Penelope.
Need help
It’s 5 AM
I get her reply plus a sleepy emoji.
Please
I need you to bring breakfast
Where?
At Lana’s
The emoji of a cat with hearts in place of eyes appears on my screen, followed by a question:
You spent the night?
Obviously
What does my boy want for breakfast?
Coffee and croissants
I’ll text you the address
On it, Boss
PS. I forgive you the early hour, but only in the name of love
Forty-five minutes later I get another text from Penny saying she’s here. I tell her to come up the walkway, and I sneak out of bed to meet her at the door. I open it a fraction and peer outside. Penny’s patiently waiting with sleepy-but-smug eyes, holding a carton tray with two coffee cups and a paper bag.
“Morning.” She smirks. “Had a good night of sleep?” Her tone is saucier than I like.
I take the tray and bag from her. “You’re the best and, no, we’re not talking about it now.”
Penny winks at me in a later-then way, chirps “Enjoy!” and waves goodbye. With a few hopping steps, she’s back in her car and speeding off down the empty street.
I sneak back into bed, dropping the tray on the nightstand, and wake Lana with a kiss on the forehead. She stretches her arms and those wonderful sapphire eyes blink open.
The moment we make eye contact, a delightful blush spreads on her cheeks.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning.” She self-consciously wraps the sheets around herself and sits up.
“I went to get breakfast.”
White lie, I know.
I hand her a paper cup and a pastry.
Lana takes a bite and, with her mouth half full, she moans, “Mm, delicious. Thank you.” She stares out the window at the backyard still coated in semi-darkness. “What time is it?”
“Nearly six. Sorry, I have a meeting in a few hours and I need to go home, shower, and get changed first.” Another lie. I simply want to leave Lana’s place before there are too many people around. “But I wanted to have breakfast with you.” This, at least, is true.
“That’s…” She blushes again. “Sweet of you.”
We eat the rest of the croissants in near silence, the only conversation happening with stolen stares.
When Lana is done, I use a napkin to clean her fingers and steal one last kiss.
“I should go,” I say.
“Thank you for breakfast,” Lana says, and then, with another, deeper blush, she adds, “But next time I want to spend all morning in bed with you.”
“Deal.” I grin like a fool. “But can we please leave the cats out?”
Two sets of yellow eyes fix me in a silent challenge.
“Sorry,” Lana says. “I let them sleep with me now, and they don’t give up privileges easily.”
“But didn’t we shut them out yesterday?”
“Yes, but they know how to open the door.”
“Then they really are your cats.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re super smart.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “I’ll call you later, all right?”
“Yeah.”
She makes to get up, but I nudge her back down. “Stay. I can let myself out.”
We kiss again and, regretfully, I leave Lana’s bedroom.
Before exiting, I check the street outside. No one there. So I quickly hop down the steps and take refuge in the Tesla.
No one saw me.
Mission incognito-morning-after accomplished.
Eleven
Lana
After Christian leaves, I snuggle back under the covers. Flashes of last night make it impossible for me to wipe a silly, sated grin from my lips.
Basking in the still-vivid memories, I close my eyes and re-live small moments of Christian-in-bed: the way the fabric of his T-shirt pulled tight across his chest as he removed it. How the curve of his biceps flexed when he was above me. The adorable way his soft blond hair fell forward, curling over his forehead. Or how sweetly disheveled he looked this morning as he brought me breakfast in bed.
I try to commit to memory all the lines of his body… a work of art.
I can count the men I’ve slept with on one hand, so I’m not a grand expert in male anatomy. But I’m sure bodies like Christian’s are not that common. He’s a sculpture of chiseled muscle with skin as smooth as marble.
Over an image of his perfect stomach, I doze off again, cocooned in total bliss, until my alarm goes off an hour later. Since I don’t have to make breakfast, I snooze it twice and enjoy the excitement mixed with tiredness a night spent making love left me with.
When I can delay no longer, I get up, waltzing through the house as I wash up, get dressed, and feed the cats.
They’re still indignant I tried to force them out of the bedroom last night; funny how quickly sleeping in my bed became an entitlement. So I trick Cengel and Boles into purring by giving them one of their favorite wet food treats—a New Zealand mackerel & lamb mix.
Peace made, I grab my purse and laptop messenger bag and leave the house.
I’m ready to make the usual uneventful walk to work, but the moment I set foot on the front steps, I’m assaulted by what must be a thousand camera flashes all going off at once. The curb in front of my house is crowded with a dozen or more people—photographers, as they’re each holding a big black camera in their hands.
“Miss Voynich!” one screams. They know my name? “How long have you been Christian Slade’s girlfriend?”
“Are you officially a couple?” another echoes.
Each man shouts a different question.
“How did you meet?”
“Are you getting married?”
“Are you pregnant?”
“What?” I shout to be heard over the noise. “What are you talking about? You have the wrong person.”
“Are you denying you’re dating Christian?”
“No,” I say as I try to push through the crowd to get on my way to work. “But what do you care?”
“Is that an official statement?” someone to my left asks.
“Are you on the record, Miss Voynich?” another one shouts from the back.
“No, I’m not on any record.” What are they even talking about? I don’t care; I just want to get past this mob. “Please let me pass.”
But they don’t budge and keep on asking questions.
“You have the wrong person,” I repeat, my frustration starting to show. “Please leave me alone.”
“Are you claiming Christian Slade didn’t spend the night here?” another guy insists.
Were these people following us? Why?
“That’s none of your business.”
“So is it true?” the same guy insists.
I’m still trying to push my way through, but the throng is too thick. Too many bodies pressing in on me. I’m beginning to panic when someone gently grabs me by the arm.
“Come with me, Miss Voynich.” It’s a young woman with light brown skin, striking aquamarine eyes, and a halo of black curls. “I work for Christian; he sent me to help you get out of
this mess.”
“Christian knows about this?” I ask.
“Yes, and he’s sorry. He didn’t want this to happen, but I’m here to help.”
“What is happening? Why send you? Why couldn’t he come himself?”
“The paparazzi are blocking the entrance to his house, too. He couldn’t come.”
“Paparazzi? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain everything in the car.” She nudges me toward the side of the road. “Now, please come with me. I’ll drive you to work.”
For lack of better alternatives, I follow this stranger who seems to know a lot about me and, more to the point, how to handle a swarm of frenzied paparazzi.
Like a pro, she elbows a passage for us through the crowd, shoving the photographers away while repeating, “Show’s over. Clear the way. Now be good boys and let us pass, or you’re never going to get another piece of Christian ever again, and that’s a promise.”
Like magic, the sea of people parts, opening a narrow corridor for us. As we walk past, the photographers keep shouting questions, only directing them at my companion now. They seem to know each other.
“Penny, does Christian have an official statement?”
“Are you on the record?”
“Are he and Lana in a relationship?”
“Guys!” the girl, Penny, shouts. “Christian’s position is not to comment at this time.”
“Oh, come on, give us something,” a younger guy pleads.
“I said no comment.”
One last step, and we reach the girl’s car. No, not her car, but Christian’s red Tesla. She opens the passenger door for me and shuts it behind me once I’m buckled in. The photographers, unperturbed, keep shooting pictures of me through the car window. The flashes only stop when the girl gets in and we pull away, leaving the flock of paparazzi behind us.
“Sorry,” the girl says. “I haven’t officially introduced myself. I’m Penelope Jones, Christian’s personal assistant.”
I’m too confused to even say anything, so I let her do the talking.
“This whole situation must seem strange to you, but I can explain everything, and Christian will call you later. If you still want to talk to him.”
To the Stars and Back: A Glittering Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 4) Page 8
