by Nancy Warren
“That’s how I started, too. I was living in Paris until recently.”
“Really? We took the children to visit Bob one Christmas. He was with IBM and it was a great treat for us all to go over there. Were you on holiday?”
“No. I studied at Le Cordon Bleu. I’m a chef.”
“Really? How interesting. Oh, how I envy you. I married so young I never…” And then they were out of earshot and he didn’t know what Helen had never done. At least the first five minutes of his ordeal were going better than he’d hoped.
He and Piers picked up the drinks and returned to the ladies, by which time the women were talking about pastry. Pastry!
David downed his scotch-and-soda. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he definitely felt the need for some false courage if he was going to get through this night.
More board members began to arrive and if Chelsea still stuck out as the most glamorous and sexy woman at the party, he began to realize that she wasn’t the embarrassment he’d feared. She was still the same intelligent, well-read, curious person she’d always been. She also seemed to have grown out of her shyness.
By the time dinner was served, she’d charmed most of the board members and their spouses. She had the rare ability to converse on a wide range of subjects and seem as interested in talking about cooking and fashion as about politics and current events. The only time she seemed lost was when talk turned to sports.
He was beginning to think that maybe this night wasn’t going to be the disaster he’d imagined when they sat down to dinner. Given the number of people, they were arranged at a long table. He and Chelsea were seated side by side, and Piers and a couple of the senior board members were closest to them.
She ordered the day’s fresh fish and he ordered the same. It wasn’t planned, but it definitely made them look more of a couple, he decided.
When the first courses arrived, Amelia leaned forward and said, “I asked Lars where you and David met.” She shook her head. “Men are so hopeless. They work together every day, and do you know, he couldn’t tell me?”
David swallowed. He and Chelsea exchanged a glance. “You didn’t tell him anything?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s a guy thing. You tell them, honey.”
She really had the most amazing eyes. Sparkly, brown like rich chocolate cake, and the most incredible combination of innocence and mischief. “Well, the truth is, David and I have known each other since I was fourteen.”
“Really, were you high school sweethearts?”
She laughed, easily. “No. He was several years older than I was. The brother of my best friend. He didn’t even know I existed.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “And I had a hopeless crush on him.”
Everyone laughed. She continued. “We moved away after I finished high school and I didn’t see David again for many years.”
He picked up the story. “Then we bumped into each other one day on the street, and I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was.”
Even though they were only acting a part, they’d both managed to tell the truth. He caught her quick glance and saw that she was flattered by his words.
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Helen said. “When is the wedding?”
He and Chelsea exchanged a glance, but she didn’t speak, letting him field this one.
“We haven’t set a date,” David said quickly. Then, realizing how that sounded, he said, “Probably next spring.”
“You should get on it ASAP if you are planning a spring wedding,” Amelia warned him. “The good places all get booked. When my daughter got married, we had a full year to plan, and still, she only got her second choice of venue.”
“That’s something to think about, honey,” he said. Then he dug around desperately for a topic that would move the conversation into a new direction. But before he’d been able to think of anything, Amelia was at it again.
“I see you don’t wear a ring, dear.”
He stared at Chelsea’s left hand, with its short, buffed nails and no jewelry whatsoever. Damn it, he’d totally forgotten. Of course he should have given her a ring. A fake diamond for his fake fiancée.
He opened his mouth with no idea what he was going to say, when Chelsea put her hand over his. “He wanted to, but I work with food all day. Honestly, a ring would only get in the way. I’d be terrified I’d take it off to wash my hands and wash the ring down the drain or something. Once we’re married, I’ll wear a wedding band, though, of course.”
A few of the board members at the other end of the table got a little rowdy as the night went on. And suddenly, to his horror, he heard a spoon begin to bang against a glass.
“We want the engaged couple to kiss,” somebody shouted.
Piers started to protest, but his wife said, “Oh, don’t spoil the fun. It’s nice to see young people in love.”
By now, other spoons had joined in the din. What could he do?
He leaned forward and caught the laughter in Chelsea’s eyes as he closed his lips on hers.
For a second he forgot that he was in a corporate setting with a group of people who held his future in their hands. All he knew was that she tasted like chocolate and sex and a hint of licorice from her earlier Pernod.
He pulled away slowly, seeing the shock in her eyes. He imagined her look must have mirrored his own. Slowly, her tongue slipped out and she licked her lips as though trying to catch the elusive flavor of that kiss.
He wanted to say something that would lighten the sudden tension, but he couldn’t think. Rockets were exploding in his brain. Or maybe they were Mayday flares warning him that he was in deep, deep trouble.
5
OH, NO. THE WORDS bounced around Chelsea’s brain like a pinging dot in one of those annoying computer games. Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!
If she’d had one rule for herself—if she’d thought any of this through enough to have created some rules for herself, which would have been a pretty damn good idea—rule number one would have been no kissing. Well, no physical contact of any kind, obviously. But it was too late for that, so maybe if she pulled herself together long enough to list a few rules for personal conduct, she had a tiny possibility of getting through this charade without making a fool of herself.
Maybe.
She got through the rest of the night somehow, but she was always conscious of David’s presence beside her, of the feel of his arm when it brushed hers. Even through the summer-weight jacket he wore she felt his body heat the same way she felt the insistent attraction that thrummed between them.
She wasn’t sure whether she was glad or sorry when they finally left. Sure, it had been stressful to play a part, but at least the mental effort had kept her from thinking about the fact that soon she’d be going to David’s home.
With David.
Alone.
“What are you thinking about?” David asked her. They were seated in a cab speeding to his place. She was sure he lived close enough to walk, but in deference to her heels, he’d insisted on a cab. And the two of them were headed for his place for all the wrong reasons.
No! She corrected herself hurriedly. For all the right reasons. Sex was a bad reason and they weren’t going to do that. Clearly no sex was the new rule number one.
Good reasons for heading to David’s place included a nice place to stay rent-free for a few months and use of a kitchen that Sarah insisted was top-of-the-line.
She had to keep reminding herself of that, especially since breaking rule number one of the former rules list, the one where no kissing held top spot. Because any fool could see that once a woman started kissing a man like David, she was never going to stop.
How many times had she dreamed about that first kiss? A thousand? A million? Ten billion? She’d been a quintessential shy-girl nerd. Not even a geek, which was starting to be cool when she hit high school. No. She didn’t mess with computers, she read classics and she cooked. She supposed, looking back, that she was trying to recreate the
home she’d lost by becoming a great cook. With the three adults all working, she was usually the one to cook dinner, and she found that she loved to experiment with new recipes, to refine old family favorites.
Other kids played video games and watched Friends when they got home from school. She watched Jacques Pepin and Martha Stewart. She wore the wrong clothes. She was plain and shy and studious. And the perfect fodder for a hopeless crush on the guy most likely to do whatever the hell he pleased.
But even in the fantasy realm where David suddenly noticed her and drew her slowly to him and kissed her, she’d never imagined that it would be quite so earth-shattering—and like most shy, bookish girls, she had quite an imagination.
Who’d have believed that now, now that she was no longer that shy young closet romantic, when she had plenty of experience of life and love, a simple kiss could rock her world.
But it had.
And so she was obsessively thinking about not thinking about that kiss—and about rules.
“I’m thinking about rules,” she said at last in answer to his question.
“Rules?” In the dim light of the cab, she thought she caught the interest on his handsome face. “What kind of rules?”
He said the words in the low, sexy tone of a man who brought women home to his place more often than she cared to think about, and not so they could sleep in the guest room and cook in his kitchen. Oh, no. He thought she was about to invent some sex game with rules. Even as the thought hit her, heat flooded her body.
No. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!
“Rules of conduct,” she snapped, knowing she must sound like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school.
“Maybe you’d better explain exactly what you mean.”
“If we’re going to be, um, sharing the same apartment, I think we need some guidelines.”
“If this is a toilet-seat-up-versus-down conversation, you can relax. There are two bathrooms. You’ll have your own.”
“I wasn’t thinking of those kinds of rules, though I suppose we’ll have to work around each other’s preferences. I was thinking more of…” She had no idea how to phrase this, and suddenly felt incredibly foolish. “Rules between you and me.”
Did he have to sit so close? There was plenty of room, but David had positioned himself so his leg was touching hers, thigh-to-thigh, and she felt the heat pulsing between them in a way that did not bode well for her peace of mind.
David, as she knew well, was a player, and she had no interest in being one of his playthings. At least, not in the sensible, self-protective part of her.
“Rules between you and me,” he echoed, sounding a little confused but also hopeful.
“Like no kissing,” she blurted.
He chuckled softly. And it was such a sexy sound she wanted to throw herself at him and break all the rules she’d thought of and a bunch she hadn’t. “Looks like we already broke the first rule.”
“I know. That’s what started me thinking. I can’t live in your house if we’re going to be, you know…”
“Kissing.”
“And so on.”
“I’m willing to negotiate here. What if we skip the kissing and stick to ‘and so on?’”
“This isn’t a joke. I barely know you.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve known each other for years.”
She could feel her red dress riding up her thighs and she tugged it down. “You didn’t even recognize me.”
“You grew up and got all sexy on me, that’s why.” His hand came down to rest on her knee, warm and confident. “We’re going to be spending a couple of months living together. Under the same roof. Based on that kiss, I’m guessing we’ve got pretty amazing chemistry. Are you seriously going to ignore it?”
The question hung in the air far too long before she found the strength to say “Yes.”
His hand moved up and down, not exactly a caress, but the next closest thing. “I think you’re getting pretty serious about something that doesn’t have to be.”
And that, right there, was the very reason that she had to have rules, and force both of them to stick to them.
Turning her body so she was facing him, and that thigh-to-thigh contact was broken, she said, “Sex is serious to me,” knowing he had to understand her position or they’d never make this thing work.
“Why?” He seemed genuinely curious.
“Because it matters.”
“Of course it matters. Sex feels good, is fun, doesn’t hurt anybody and could definitely help reduce some of the tension you’re carrying.”
“Is that really what you think? That sex is only a recreational sport, like a game of tennis?”
“Maybe not exactly like tennis, but a game that feels good, gets your heart rate up and relieves tension. What’s wrong with that?”
“Not for me. For me sex goes together with love. I can’t give myself to someone I don’t have deep feelings for.”
There was silence for a few beats. Then he removed his hand and said, “Okay.”
That was it? Okay? She had no idea why, but she felt let down. He hadn’t tried very hard to argue her out of her position. And not that she’d have caved, but it would have felt good to know she was so desirable he’d make an issue out of wanting to sleep with her.
She supposed he’d find another willing partner to play his games easily enough that not getting into her bed wasn’t going to bother him very much. How depressing.
She hadn’t even been entirely honest. She’d slept with men she knew she didn’t love, but she’d always felt more than mere friendship, she supposed. And more than simply lust. And she hadn’t been sharing living quarters with them at the time.
Fortunately, since she couldn’t think of anything to talk about and her companion didn’t seem interested in starting a new subject of conversation, the cab pulled up in front of a brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street. The area was one of the nicest in the city, and full of up-and-coming hotshots like David. She could walk everywhere from here, which was great, she reminded herself.
He paid off the cab and climbed out, then held out his hand to help her navigate high heels and a short skirt.
“Thanks,” she said, when she reached the pavement.
He let go of her hand and dug out his keys.
They walked up a few steps to a glossy black door with a leaded window embedded in the upper half, and when he opened the door and flipped on the lights, she followed him in and instantly fell in love.
His town house combined the best of the nineteenth century, when it had been built, with its original wainscoting and gleaming hardwood floors, fireplace and high ceilings, with completely modern furnishings, including the art and lighting.
The designer had stayed with a masculine palette, painting the rooms in burgundies, grays and some greens, but she liked it.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Thanks. The kitchen’s through here,” he said as though he’d known she’d want to see that room before anything else. He led her through the living room, pointing out a powder room on that level, and then he opened double doors and she found herself falling in love all over again.
“It’s huge,” she said, not able to come up with anything more original.
“I had the dining room taken out and one big kitchen put in. I’m not the dining-room type. I figured this was more practical. Not that I cook much.”
She walked forward and ran her fingers over dark gray granite counters the way she’d touch a lover’s face. A breakfast bar had four high-tech stools pulled up to it, but an old farmhouse table that just begged for a jug of fresh flowers to sit on it provided sit-down dining. Most of one wall was windows.
She glanced back at David. “Are you kidding me? Look at these appliances,” she crooned, running her fingers over sleek industrial stainless steel. “Gas oven, perfect. And a six-burner stove.” The fridge was double-sided and if the pull-out freezer wasn’t large, she didn’
t think that would matter. She intended to buy fresh and cook fresh. David could fill his entire freezer with ice cubes for all she cared.
Clearly, Sarah hadn’t lied about David never using his own fancy kitchen. There was a sterility to the space that suggested not much cooking went on here.
She opened the oven door, picturing her trays inside. Peeking into the fridge, she found it a bachelor cliché. “There’s nothing in here but booze and a few takeout containers.”
He shrugged. “I’m not home much.” He seemed to enjoy her excitement as she dragged open every cupboard and drawer, gauging how much she’d have to buy and where she’d put her supplies. She was delighted at how relatively empty his storage spaces were and knew that wouldn’t last for long.
“This is so perfect,” she said, looking up to find him regarding her with amusement.
“You haven’t even looked at your bedroom.”
“Who needs to sleep when you have a kitchen like this? Oh, the things I’ll be able to create in this space.”
But she followed him down a short corridor and up a flight of stairs.
“My bedroom,” he said, opening the first door. Ah, she thought, here’s where he spends most of his time when he’s at home. The bed was huge, and the room, although neat, sported stuff. Including a TV he could watch from his bed.
He crossed the hall and opened the last door. “And your room.”
Like everything else in this town house but his bedroom, her room had obviously been staged by a decorator and never touched since. It was done in neutral shades, contained a queen-size bed, a dresser, mirror, some not very interesting art on the walls and its own en suite. A neat stack of moving boxes on the floor told her her stuff had arrived okay.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Remember, we’re helping each other out.”
She looked up and saw him regarding her with a mixture of longing and frustration. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “There’s one more floor where I keep a home office.”
