by Dylan Newton
But then there had been that moment at the end. A heartbeat of time when he thought she might kiss him. And that tiny hope fueled him through five thousand words this morning. He’d been more energized at his writing desk than he had for years.
He checked the time in the corner of the screen, noting that he had around five minutes before Kate was due to arrive, so he clicked Save on Memory’s Lane and put his laptop to sleep. He’d left the scene mid-sentence as he always did—a trick he’d picked up from other writers as a way to stave off the dreaded writer’s block. If you always knew at least that much of a scene—enough to finish a sentence—you had enough to start the day writing as you waited for your muse to clock in and fill those blank pages with words. Although the trick hadn’t worked for him in months…until now.
As he cleaned the kitchen table of the letters, Drake dreaded Kate’s plans for his house and this launch. He reminded himself he was allowing fans inside for a hefty donation to veterans in need, but the thought of his private sanctum being invaded, people judging and gawking at his ancestral home, made him cringe.
Suddenly, his gate chime sounded, and he raced Sasha to the security panel. She beat him to it, her tiny paws pattering on the door as she barked excitedly, her tag wagging wildly as he punched in the code, buzzing Kate inside. He picked the dog up, letting the fluffball plant kisses on his chin and neck.
“Who’s here, huh?” he asked, ruffling the fur on her head, chuckling at how the gate chime and doorbell made her go berserk.
He still thought it was odd the way she’d come into his life. Two years ago, he’d gone out to get his morning paper and discovered a small puppy shivering in a crate that had been lowered over his gates with a makeshift rope-pulley. There was no note, just a paper showing her shot records with the vet’s header and logo trimmed off. “Sasha” had been written in a child’s scrawl on a piece of masking tape adhered to the top of the crate. It was the strangest fan gift he’d ever received.
He opened his door as Kate ascended the porch steps, professionally dressed in a tailored navy pantsuit. Her hair was up in what he now knew was a chignon, crafted by folding those luscious auburn curls over and over themselves, and then fastening them with four strategically placed bobby pins. He’d already written it all in his notes—how it had felt to take her hair down, as if he were somehow undressing her—and he looked forward to what he might be able to steal from their encounter today.
His smile of greeting changed as he noticed what was behind her. Clinging to the bars of the iron fencing stood his fans, waving and cheering at him amid flashes from cell phone cameras. When it was a sunny day, no matter the temperature, you could count on a crowd outside for hours snapping pictures and sometimes shouting to the house, begging for him to come out and sign books. It was only thanks to the rain and miserable weather that Kate hadn’t encountered the throng previously. Drake’s scowl deepened as he motioned her inside.
“Good…morning?” she said, turning the greeting into a question.
He fixed his face. “Sorry, the mob out there sets my teeth on edge. It’s creepy the way they stand there, like zombies, and—never mind,” he interrupted himself, wondering why he was always reduced to a stuttering teenager around this woman. “Come on in. And don’t worry. I’ve got Sasha. She won’t attack you.”
“Ha-ha,” Kate said, stepping inside and bending her head down to the level of the dog in his arms. She ruffled the shih tzu’s hair, crooning as Sasha wiggled madly. “We have an understanding, now, don’t we? I don’t sneak up on you in the bushes, and you won’t chase me using your big dog voice, right?”
Sasha barked, and Drake set her down. She danced around them for a couple of seconds before racing away to her crate to drag out her favorite toy. Drake hung up Kate’s coat and, despite his protests, Kate removed her shoes before following him toward the back of the house as he attempted to be a good sport about his end of the bargain.
Kate would have her circus-like event, and he’d reap the benefits of her presence in the interim, resulting in the culmination of this romance novel.
It would be worth it. It would.
“Do you want a cup of coffee? I thought we’d meet back here,” he said, leading her through the swinging door into the kitchen. “It’s more private.”
“Yeah, some of your fans had professional cameras, like they were trying to get a picture of you through the lace blinds. And I’d love a cup of coffee. Just black, no sugar.” Kate set her leather satchel on a chair, gazing around the kitchen with interest. “Is this where your chef prepares all your meals? I expected something…more industrial and modern.”
Drake raised an eyebrow at her. “Why would you think I had a chef? Is that one of the rumors out there—that I’ve got some poor bastard trapped back here, carving raw meat off a cow carcass for me, freshly dipping it in warm, bloody au jus?”
Kate’s face did that captivating transformation from creamy white to peachy pink in the time it took for her to reply.
“Well, not the fresh au jus part. But don’t worry—I won’t tell.”
Drake laughed. God, he loved how she surprised him into humor!
“No chef. Just me,” Drake said, searching through the mugs with stupid sayings that Ryker had given him for an appropriate one. No way was he handing Kate a mug that said Coffee Makes Me Poop. He finally located one of the tall blue-and-green glazed mugs handcrafted in Zander’s ceramics studio. He poured her a cup and got another for himself, all the while watching Kate’s gaze take in every nook and cranny. His empty stomach churned as he wondered what her event planner’s mind made of the space. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“Drake, this kitchen is amazing!” Kate grinned at him when he turned from the coffee maker. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you spied on my Pinterest boards. I have a table with four red, vinyl-backed chairs just like this set on my board, and that cherry-red Elmira Stove Works gas range is literally my kitchen goal. You’ve got a great eye for decorating—I love the nostalgic 1950s aesthetic you’ve got going on and the fact that it’s juxtaposed with modern appliances and that drool-worthy white farmhouse sink…” Kate paused in her admiration, looking at him with embarrassment as he sat down opposite her at the table. She finished lamely, “Well, I just really like it.”
Drake slid her mug to her, admiring the beautiful flush of red in her cheeks as he leaned back in his chair. “I can’t take any credit. My mother knew the kitchen needed an upgrade, so she designed it and had it renovated after Nana moved out and before I moved in. Mom’s sort of a vintage-design nut—I’m sure you noticed it when you were in the bakery.”
“The bakery?”
“PattyCakes,” Drake said, his eyebrow raising at her in disbelief. “The bakery where you placed an order for three hundred cupcakes for the launch? Did you really not know that was my mother—with those pictures of me all over her walls?”
Kate’s eyes grew round.
“That was your mom? I—I didn’t know, actually. I just thought you were all over the walls because you’re a local celebrity. She never said anything, even after I told her…”
“Told her what?” Drake asked.
“Well, I sort of broke down,” Kate admitted, ducking her head to gaze at her coffee. “I’m not a crier, but with everything that happened that day, I was so worried about Imani’s job, and your mom was so kind to me, it hit me all at once. We were alone, and she was so easy to talk to…I sort of told her everything. Flashing your neighbor, the accidental stabbing, you passing out on top of me, Evan Everstone—”
“She knows about Everstone being here?” Drake’s fingers tightened around his mug. The fact that cretin had seen him unconscious and weak made his blood burn. You never showed your enemies your weakness.
“Sort of.” Kate met his eyes, wincing. “Are—are you going to kick me out again?”
Drake chuckled, letting out a breath and his anger. While he wasn’t sure of much in life, he
knew this much: Kate was no Machiavelli. She was almost transparent, she was so easy to read, and her expression held no guile or cunning. True, she probably shouldn’t have told his mother all of that, but then again, he knew his mom—she could force the pope to confess his sins, with her lethal combination of piercing eyes and coma-inducing desserts. He had to trust Kate if this bargain was going to work.
“Nope. I’m not tossing you out on your ear. We’ve got a deal, remember?”
Kate gave him a tentative smile. “How could I forget? I’m doing insane things like climbing into caskets for you to help you research this new novel, and in return—”
“I’m going to do insane things so Everstone has no choice but to give you that award you’ve been coveting.” Drake nodded, standing up. “Let’s get started with that tour of the house you requested.”
“Great!” Kate stood, and her stomach growled so loudly even Drake heard it.
He changed direction, heading for the fridge. “Right after breakfast. How’s an omelet sound?”
She laughed with a self-conscious grimace, putting a hand to her stomach. “Apparently, it sounds amazing. How can I help?”
Drake’s first instinct was to tell her that she didn’t have to do anything. He was raised that a guest was to be treated like royalty, and his mother would stroke to hear what he was about to say. But as soon as the idea popped into his head, he knew he had to take advantage of this situation for his book.
They were going to cook together.
His mind was already whirring with where he’d place this scene in Memory’s Lane—right after his hero rescues Ingrid from her pursuers in the silent movie, they take alleyways and back streets to his flat, where he cooks breakfast. He can tell she hasn’t eaten for days and is dirty and waif-thin. But his leg injury makes him clumsy in the kitchen, so he needs her help and—
“Drake?” Kate’s voice startled him back to the present. She peered with him into the fridge, cold air blasting them both as they stared at his shelves of food. “Everything okay? You seemed to be…lost for a second.”
He grabbed the eggs, butter, and the green peppers from the crisper. He feigned a limp as he walked toward the nearest counter.
“I pulled a muscle. From my run this morning,” he fibbed, turning away from her. He was a rotten liar—his brothers caught him out on every single one he tried to float by them—but he reasoned that the lie was innocent enough. Plus, it sounded a hell of a lot better than telling her he was playacting the scene in his head to see how his heroine—or Kate, for now—might respond in this situation. Heat crept up his neck as he furthered the lie. “I might need you to give me a hand?”
“Of course!” Kate bustled over, taking the items from his arms and laying them all on the countertop. “I don’t have a huge kitchen repertoire, but I can cook an omelet. I think. Or at least an egg scramble with a bunch of ingredients, which is pretty much the same thing. Right?”
“Right. Thanks so much.” Drake smiled, his fingers itching for a pen and paper. Instead, he folded his arms, leaning a hip against the countertop, drinking in every gesture and facial expression as Kate buzzed self-consciously around his kitchen, opening random drawers and cupboards. She was like a whirlwind of chattering determination, and what she lacked in efficiency she made up for in brimming self-confidence. She really was like a pint-size superhero in her stocking feet and with wisps of auburn hair escaping the tight chignon as she worked.
He had no idea how real-life Kate would achieve her goal of winning that award, but he knew one thing: having her work with him on his romance novel, albeit clandestinely, had been a stroke of brilliance.
Chapter 11
Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Kate muttered, as she picked bits of eggshell from the mixing bowl with the spatula. She’d been a little overaggressive breaking the last egg and now shells littered the bottom of the bowl beneath the raw eggs. She tried a different tool, dipping in with a metal spoon, but instead of scooping them out, all she seemed to be doing was chasing the shell pieces around the bowl.
“Seems to be your theme song,” Drake said, and when she glanced up sharply, he wasn’t leaning against the far counter. Instead, he stood behind her, watching her fishing expedition with those golden eyes that seemed to miss nothing.
“That’s not a compliment.” Kate bristled, nudging a stray hair out of her face by using her shoulder to avoid getting raw egg in her hair. “I’m a person who lives by a spreadsheet of detailed line items. Things always go according to my plans. Normally.”
Drake shrugged, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught a smile blooming on his lightly whiskered face. “If you say so. From what I’ve seen chaos seems to follow you around like a lapdog.”
Kate resisted the urge to be goaded. It felt like he was looking to provoke a reaction from her for some reason. He reminded her of a tiger she’d seen at the Bronx Zoo once who just lay there and seemed to be content, but all the while studying the people pressed against the fence, his tail thumping idly against the ground. Unseen by the crowd, his lethal claws extended and retracted, as if waiting for his prey to step closer so he could pounce.
Kate noticed Drake had that same idle intensity, and it was as distracting as it was…thrilling. If she were being honest, maybe a small part of her enjoyed being the object of his interest. What might it be like to have that intensity focused on her for an hour? Or a night?
Kate shook her head, clearing the crazy thoughts. None of that today. She’d promised herself, for Imani’s sake, she’d ignore Drake’s rock-hard abs and wouldn’t be lured in by his rumbling, infectious laugh. She would focus on the task at hand. First—make this stupid omelet. Next, tour the house, and last, come up with a decorating scheme and get Drake to sign off on it. That was the plan. Those were the steps.
Kate glared at the bits of eggshell littering the bottom of the bowl, going after them from the top instead of the side. Maybe that was the trick?
“Can I give you a tip?” Drake’s voice sounded right behind her, his warm breath fanning her ear. Heat rose up her neck, and she knew she was blushing. Why did that always happen around this guy? “Crack your egg on the counter next time—the flat surface is better than the edge of the bowl, and you won’t get shells in the mixture that way.”
Kate set the spoon down, giving him a sour look to hide how flustered she’d become at his proximity. “Thank you, Gordon Ramsay. But lucky for you and your upcoming book launch, you can rest assured that when chaos strikes, I can adapt. Like now. Where’s your colander? I’m about to alter my plan, and it’s still going to be incredible.”
Drake limped to the other side of the kitchen, and Kate swore he was favoring the other leg this time. He bent down, retrieved a plastic strainer from a cupboard, and handed it to her. Then, saying nothing, he watched as she chopped veggies, then turned on the stove.
Kate grinned with delight as the gorgeous red stove ticked several times and whooshed to life, a blue-white flame dancing merrily above the burner. She put the chopped green pepper in first with the butter, and then she turned to Drake.
“Are you okay if this is more carnivorous? I mean, you’re not vegetarian, are you?”
“Nope, I like it all,” he said, his full lips tilted up at the edges in an expression of amusement that made her want to swat him. Or kiss him.
No. Focus. Think of the plan.
Kate stalked to his refrigerator, throwing open the door to grab some precooked turkey sausage and shredded cheese she’d spotted when she peeked over Drake’s shoulder as he’d seemed confounded by his earlier foray to the fridge. She quickly sliced the sausage links into thin discs, then tossed them in with the peppers. Next, she poured the whisked raw eggs into the pan through the strainer, hoping the holes would catch all those pesky shells, and gradually coaxed the eggs into a scramble, breathing in the delicious scent of sweet sausage and fried green peppers in anticipation. Just as it firmed, she topped it with cheddar cheese.
“There! Chaos managed.” Kate blew a stray hair off her forehead, turning off the burner. She’d felt him staring at her the entire time she was cooking, and it had made her nervous and self-conscious, but oddly, she wasn’t weirded out by his silent observance. It didn’t feel stalker-ish—more like she was being seen, really seen by a man. And Lord knew it had been a hot minute since that had happened.
Drake reached behind him and pulled out two plates and silverware, handing one set to her. “I stand corrected. You are the master of chaos—it dare not master you.”
He poured a top-off to their coffee, and they sat at the red-trimmed enamel table.
Kate dove into the egg scramble…and stopped chewing as her first bite crunched.
Damn. An eggshell.
But Drake was shoveling the food into this mouth, so she assured herself it was the only bit of shell that’d gotten into the pan. She swallowed it all down with hot coffee, trying not to gag. Then, she heard Drake crunch on his bite, as if he’d put a Dorito in his mouth instead of eggs, fully cooked peppers, sausage, and cheese.
Kate’s eyes widened, and she held her breath.
Yet his expression never changed. He swallowed the bite, and took another, never breaking stride. He must not have wanted to hurt her feelings.
“Um, sorry about the shells. Thought I got them all.”
“Doesn’t bother me.” Drake shrugged. “Bit of extra calcium, is all. The best thing about Marine boot camp, followed by my weekends of reserve training, is the absolute disregard you have thereafter for the taste, texture, or temperature of the food entering your body. I’ve literally eaten dog food, so I’m not bothered by crunchy scrambled eggs.”
“Well. My breakfast is better than Alpo. Good to know.” Kate wrinkled her nose, picking around the egg to spear the safer, less shell-riddled sausage with her fork.
“What I should have said first, was, ‘Thank you for breakfast,’” Drake amended, reaching across the table to tap against the hand she’d cupped around her mug. “Although I think I’m the one who owed you a meal after yesterday’s adventure in the cemetery. I hope it didn’t scar you for life?”
