by Nancy Warren
“Okay.”
A beat of silence ticked by.
“You did good tonight. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I enjoyed myself. They seem like nice people.”
“They are.” He stood there, leaning against the doorjamb. “I wasn’t sure where you’d want your stuff, so I put the boxes in your room, but unpack however you like. My house is your house. I put the box labeled ‘bathroom’ right in your bathroom, but everything else is here.”
“Oh, right. Good.” She was so busy thinking about how good he tasted that she’d forgotten she didn’t have so much as a toothbrush with her. Sarah, who thought of everything, had told her to pack all her stuff up and have it sent over to David’s.
His gaze dipped to her mouth and she knew he was reliving their kiss just as she was. “You really serious about those rules of yours?”
Oh, it would be so easy to shake her head, let herself go. So easy.
And such a truly, monumentally terrible idea. Maybe, if she didn’t have to live here for the next couple of months, maybe she’d throw her own sense of what was right for her out the window. She’d take one step and be in his arms, then his bed.
And tomorrow? He’d have a new partner. For all she knew, he played doubles. She really didn’t think she could stay in his guest room while he carried on his carefree bachelor existence. Not once she’d been intimate with him. She wasn’t built that way.
So, with some regret, she nodded. “I’m serious.”
He shook his head. “Okay, then. Good night.”
She heaved a sigh of combined relief and frustration when he exited, leaving her alone in a tasteful, neutral guest room.
She used up some of her restless energy in unpacking her suitcases, putting her clothes away in the closet and dresser. Then she organized the bathroom and unpacked her toiletries and prepared herself for bed.
It was late, and she was tired but she wasn’t sleepy. She dug out one of her favorite cookbooks and crawled into bed with Chef Patricia Yeo. She read cookbooks the way some people read Dickens or Shakespeare. She could dip into the same books over and over again and always find something new.
At last, she flipped out the light and settled herself in the big, empty bed. It had been a lot of years since Chelsea fell asleep thinking about kissing David.
In truth, she wasn’t thinking about kissing. Her imagination had moved on. And she wasn’t anywhere near sleep.
She sighed and punched the pillow.
It was going to be a long couple of months.
6
“I THINK MY TONGUE just had an orgasm,” Sarah moaned as she bit into the tiny lime-and-pomegranate tart, fresh from the oven. Her fourth in less than a minute.
Chelsea couldn’t remember when she’d felt so gratified.
Four days since she’d moved into David’s place and already she was experimenting, cooking with recipes she knew as she got comfortable with the stove and playing with local ingredients to try new combinations.
“You are a food genius.” Sarah swallowed, tried to control herself and gave in, reaching for another tart. “This is my last one. Stab me with that chef’s knife if I even try to reach for another tart.” She popped the treat into her mouth and closed her eyes as she devoured it. Opening them again, she said, “I am going to have to spend the next week at the gym to make up for it.”
“You can’t leave before you try these and tell me what you think.”
She gazed at Chelsea, busily piping chocolate ganache into the rest of the tart shells. “How do you do it? You create this amazing food and you’re not seven hundred pounds. I don’t get it.”
“Well, I’m not skinny like you, either.” She glanced down at herself. “I should lose a few pounds.”
“Get out. You have womanly curves.” Sarah stared at her in frank envy. “I’d kill for those boobs.”
She watched Chelsea add a sliver of almond and pipe a flourish of crème fraîche then obediently raved.
Sarah wasn’t the kind who said what you wanted to hear. Chelsea knew her bliss was unfeigned. Good, two of her recipes were as good as she’d hoped.
“How did my deviant brother react when he saw you the other night?”
“He didn’t even recognize me.”
Sarah snorted with laughter. “Really? He didn’t know you at all?”
“It wasn’t all that funny. He thought I was trying to pick him up. On the street.”
“Only an egotist like David would ever think a woman like you would pick him up on the street. As if.”
“I wouldn’t pick anyone up. On the street or off it.”
“I know you wouldn’t. Oh, I wish I’d seen that first meeting. After you got over that little misunderstanding, how did the fake fiancée thing go? All right? Or were you busted?”
“No. I think we pulled it off. They all saw what they were expecting to see and of course I’ve known David long enough that I was able to improvise.” She grinned. “They thought we were high school sweethearts. Which is pretty funny considering your brother didn’t know I was alive.”
“I bet he knows now.”
Chelsea made a wry face and glanced down. “Amazing what a few pounds of cleavage will do for a girl.”
“It’s not that. It’s the whole package. You were a late bloomer. It’s like you grew into your sexuality a few years after everybody else. Probably in Paris.”
“Maybe.”
“So?” She put both elbows on the granite counter, pushing away a pastry bag to do so. “What happened? I want no gory details, obviously, because we’re talking my brother, ugh, but did you, you know? Get down and dirty with my bro?”
“No. Of course not. This arrangement is strictly business for both of us.”
Sarah looked both relieved and disappointed at the same time. “I guess that’s for the best, but I sure would like to see him with someone who wasn’t a fluffy.”
“I guess he’s a late bloomer, too, emotionally.”
“Or a stunted stick who will never bloom emotionally,” said his loving sister. “It’s a great arrangement, though, huh? Can you believe this kitchen?”
“I know. I was so happy to quit the restaurant and start really working toward my own business.”
“And he’s an okay roommate, right? He’s a bit of a neat freak.”
She shrugged. “I might as well be living alone. I never see him.”
Sarah nodded. “He works hard and plays hard.” She gave a wry grin. “We’re alike in that way.”
“I’ve noticed.”
She had, too. “When I left for Paris, you were killing yourself at work as an articling student. And trying out men like they were shoes.”
“Now I’m an associate in the firm and I’m killing myself to make partner.” She began rearranging the ingredients on the counter. “How many men do you have to try on before you find one that fits?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t have time to waste, you know? Mom’s always on about what a hard time she had getting pregnant. It’s her favorite story these days and she always gives me this look, like it probably runs in the family and I’m not getting any younger.”
“You’re only twenty-eight.”
“I know. But I want to have a kid by the time I’m thirty. It’s stupid, but it’s on my list and you know how I am about my lists.”
Chelsea glanced up from her task. “I can’t believe you still have those.”
“A goal that isn’t written down is only a dream,” she replied, sounding like a talk-show guest with a new self-help book to promote.
“But some things you can’t control. Like love. Or even when you’ll make partner.”
“I know. I know.” Her cell phone buzzed. She looked at the call and ignored it. “I don’t want to end up one day realizing I’m thirty-five and still single and making an appointment at the sperm bank, you know?”
Chelsea couldn’t help laughing. “You won’t end up at the sperm bank.”
“The thing is, I need a partner. I can’t raise a baby by myself. Not with my schedule.”
“Maybe you should relax and not push it.”
“I push everything. It’s my personality. I’m Type A,” she announced, like that was news. “I can’t waste time.”
“I’m your best friend and I have to tell you that you are sounding kind of neurotic. Even for you.”
“It’s all David’s fault. I am going to kill him!”
“What’s he done?” And when, she wondered. He’d barely been home in the last four days. She sometimes heard him come in at night, usually around midnight when she was already in bed, and then he was up and gone by seven. She had no idea how he got by on so little sleep. And also she had to wonder why he’d invested in this beautiful home. He rarely saw it.
“You remember I told you my emotional retard brother signed me up for an online dating site?”
“Yes. You said he made you sound like a girl from the fifties.”
“He did. And these ridiculous men started e-mailing me.”
“You know, you can cancel your subscription or membership or whatever it is.”
“I stayed on it for a joke, I’d get all whupped up about what Neanderthals men are, and I admit I’ve had a few laughs with some of the other women in my firm.” She looked as though she were truly in pain.
“Right. And?”
“And I met someone.”
“You met someone.”
She nodded, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Someone who thinks you are a traditional girl with traditional values?”
“Yeah. I mean, I haven’t ‘met him,’ met him. But I e-mailed him back.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s frickin’ gorgeous. At least, his picture is. And we’ve been e-mailing. Kind of a lot.”
“Oh, dear.”
“And now he wants to meet me.”
“What do you know about this guy?”
“He’s a school guidance counselor and he teaches yoga on the weekends.”
“Yoga?” If she’d been asked to pick the top qualities Sarah would hate in a man, practicing yoga would be right up there.
“Yes.”
“As in Zen, meditation, the sitar.”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
Her next batch of tart shells was ready, so she slipped them out of the oven and onto the cooling tray. “And do you want to meet him?”
“I don’t know. He’s gorgeous, and he writes these really great e-mails, but it’s not enough, is it?”
“It’s a start.”
“I can’t even have him for a while just for sex because the reason he’s on that site is that he’s not into casual relationships.”
“You’d do that?” She looked at Sarah, wondered how she and David and half the people she knew could engage in hookups that meant nothing.
Her old friend shrugged. “My life is hectic. I don’t have a lot of time and I need sex like anybody else. There’s a lot of people who use those sites to hook up, you know.”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Anyhow, he’s really clear that he has no interest in that. He wants to get to know a woman before he has sex with her.”
“How unusual,” Chelsea said. And how ironic. She was interested in David, who only wanted casual hookups, and the unknown school counselor had the same issue with David’s sister.
“What do I do?”
“Why don’t you have coffee with the guy? It can’t hurt. Or go to one of his yoga classes. Maybe the whole relaxation thing would be good for you.”
“Maybe. And it’s not like I’m looking to get laid, I’m not. But I don’t want to be with some guy who won’t do it until he’s married, either. You know?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “What do you talk about on e-mail?”
“I don’t know. Dumb stuff. Traveling, books, movies we’ve seen. We both love movies. And biking.”
“You bike?”
“No. But he does, and he tells me about it.”
“So? Meet him for coffee. It can’t hurt.”
“I guess.” She shook her head and a lock of black hair flopped onto her forehead, a little the way her brother’s did.
“It’s only coffee.”
“I just hope he doesn’t end up being a bore. I don’t have that kind of time to waste.”
“You know what? I think maybe I do see a sperm bank in your future.”
7
“HI, HONEY, I’M HOME.” David felt like an idiot announcing his presence in his own house, but he didn’t want to startle his temporary roommate.
He stepped inside and felt his nostrils quiver. What was that amazing smell?
“Hi,” a cheerful voice answered him. “You’re home early.”
He put down his briefcase. He’d never thought of his home as cold before, but walking into it now he noticed a difference. The space felt warm, lived-in, and whatever that woman was cooking, his stomach wanted some.
He’d never thought a woman could look sexy in an apron. The image reminded him of moms and old ladies at Christmas dressed as Mrs. Claus, but on Chelsea? The blue-and-white striped apron was about the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
Dragging his tie off, he moved closer to his kitchen. Never had there been so much activity in it so long as he’d lived here. He’d grilled the odd steak, and a woman or two had cooked him dinner, but mostly he ate out. He stared in amazement. Little blue flames danced under copper-bottomed pots that certainly didn’t belong to him, and the air was scented like the best French restaurant, only somehow cozier and more familiar.
As he looked at the number of dishes spread out he experienced an uncomfortable scratchy feeling behind his breastbone. “Are you entertaining tonight?”
She’d been quick to make up rules about how he couldn’t have sex with her, or even kiss her, and naturally, the minute he was faced with rules like “no sex,” what else could he think of but taking that lush body in his arms and making love to her all night long?
Why hadn’t he thought to institute a few rules of his own? The first of which would be no entertaining other men in his house when she was supposed to be engaged to him.
She laughed, a deep, sexy sound. “No, I’m not. Well, your sister did drop by earlier, but I wouldn’t invite people here without your permission. And I certainly don’t intend to invite men over while I’m supposed to be engaged to you.”
Even though he was relieved to find she saw the situation exactly as he wanted her to, he also saw how unfair it was. He dashed upstairs into his bedroom, changing into jeans and a shirt before emerging once again into the kitchen.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that this deal isn’t exactly fair on you, is it?”
She was stirring something on the stove, critically studying the contents. “What’s not fair?”
“That you can’t see anyone else, I guess.”
She glanced up at him, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of the stove. “I went into this arrangement with my eyes open. I won’t do anything that would embarrass you.” She considered. “At least, not on purpose. And I really don’t have time for a man in my life right now, I want to get my business going.” She wiped her hands on a towel. “There’s so much to do. Licenses—oh, that reminds me, I need to make an appointment for a health inspection of the premises. Are you okay with that?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“I’m not completely sure yet what I’m doing. I mean, what my menus will be. I don’t want to start too big and ambitious and turn your apartment into a catering company, but if I start too small, then it’s going to take ages to build a reputation. So far I’m just cooking.”
She’d pushed her hair behind her ears at some point and the ends brushed her jaw. He had no idea why the sight was so hypnotic but he wanted to kiss that spot, trail kisses along her jaw and to her mouth, that glorious, sexy mouth. It took an effort to concentrate on her words.
“Who is all this food for?”
She looked around as though she hadn’t realized how much food she’d cooked. She shrugged helplessly. “You, if you want it.”
The itchy feeling behind his breastbone subsided. “Oh, if it tastes half as good as it smells, I want it.”
She found one of the ridiculously expensive black-and-white plates his designer had chosen. “You have to be honest, though. I want a critique of every bite. I’m determined to be the best caterer this city has ever seen.”
“And I respect your position. But I really don’t want to eat alone with you hovering over me with a scorecard. How about you take off that apron, grab another plate, I’ll open a bottle of wine and we can eat like regular people.” He glanced around. “Only with a lot more food choices.”
“You’re laughing at me. But I can’t help myself. This kitchen is wonderful and I start cooking and can’t seem to stop. I went to the Reading Terminal Market today and got a bit carried away. I’d forgotten how great it is there. So many fresh fruits and vegetables, and an excellent assortment of fish, and artisanal cheeses and—” She laughed. “Well, I don’t have to tell you, you live here.”
But he didn’t think he’d ever in his life got all excited about a food market.
“I may be laughing at you just a little bit, but I’m not complaining. What’s on the menu?”
“We have about three different appetizers to start with, then duck with fresh cherries—I hope it tastes good—and a little lamb that we should probably have later, grilled simply with fresh herbs and fresh vegetables, and two kinds of tart for dessert.”
Whistling softly, he went to the wine fridge that he kept stocked even though he was rarely home to drink wine. While he selected a decent bottle that he hoped would complement a few of the dishes laid out, his roommate set the table. She knew his kitchen far better than he did, unerringly finding table mats he’d forgotten he owned and placing everything neatly on the table.
He noted a big vase of daisies on the table and thought how much they brightened up the place. His roommate wasn’t quite as neat as he was, but the few things she left around made the place seem more lived in. There was the book she’d been reading, set on a side table by the window. Today’s newspaper, open to the half-finished crossword puzzle.
