by Moss, Brooke
Ellie stopped jumping and stared up at me, her face grave. “Mommy says beauty is on the inside.”
I cringed. Yikes. My maternal instinct may have kicked on recently, but that didn’t stop me from saying the wrong thing. My humor wasn’t exactly kid friendly. But I was learning. Sometimes potty humor could translate seamlessly between a thirty-two year old and a six year old.
“She’s right,” I said quickly. “Sorry. What I meant was, if you fall and hit the grill, you could get burned. And then who would stand around doing all that terrific jumping?”
Ellie’s face softened. “I can jump twenty three times in a row.”
“Impressive.” I smiled at her. Those eight reality TV kids had nothing on Ellie. Her little almond eyes were light and she had her mother’s button nose, the lucky little punk. I planned on shaving another centimeter or two off of my own schnoz as soon as I could get the time off. “What other kinds of tricks can you do?”
Ellie started spinning. “See? I can spin! Seeee?”
“You sure can. Good thing I made you move away from the grill. When you fall over, try to aim for that grass, so you’ll have a soft landing.”
Ellie cracked up and stopped spinning. She swayed in place. “I won’t fall.”
“Right. You look about as steady as Auntie Marisol at Madison’s on a Saturday night.” Whoops. Bringing up my favorite martini bar downtown was probably a bad idea. Once again, I cringed, adding, “I mean, because I’m tired. Just…beat.”
Ellie tipped over and landed on her back in the thick grass. “Oof!”
“Told ya.” I turned a piece of salmon on the grill, and turned off the flame. “Are you ready to eat some food that is muy deliciosa?”
Ellie looked up at me from the ground. “Are you ‘peaking ‘panish again?”
“Yes. That’s Spanish.” I held out my hands and tugged her to her feet. When she let go, my hands were covered in something sticky. “Let’s call everybody over to eat, shall we?”
A shrill cry rang out, and I noticed that Ian’s stroller was wiggling in its spot next to the table. “Oh, crap,” I muttered, shielding my eyes from the sun and scanning the park for Fletcher and Lexie.
Ellie looked up at me. “That’s a naughty word.”
“Crap is?” I looked down at her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
That was my edited down version.
“My mom says stinky feet.”
“Yeah, well, your mom’s a freak.”
Ellie frowned. “That’s not nice.”
“Right. Sorry.” Ian screamed again, and I sighed. “For what it’s worth, it was your mom who taught me how to do a beer bong.”
“What’s a beer bong?”
“It’s a…” I spotted everyone else down the hill by the duck pond, at least a football field’s length away. “A toy. A toy for college kids.”
Ellie resumed her bouncing. “That sounds like fun.”
“Eh. It’s sort of messy.” I waved my arms at my group of friends throwing bread into the pond. “Hey! HEY GUYS! Woo hoo, over here!” Ian’s crying was getting persistent, and I knew my, ahem, plumbing wasn’t going to satisfy his hunger. Lexie was still breastfeeding him like some sort of Pioneer woman, even though he was a year old. “Oh, good Lord,” I muttered, stomping over to the stroller. “Sure. Just leave me here to cook all the food and watch the baby, too. Why not leave your car for me to wash, too?”
Ian’s wails increased and Ellie tugged on the hem of my sundress. “You better give him a bottle or something.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the tip.” Casting a frustrated glance at Lexie, who was playfully throwing crumbs at a mallard duck, her back turned to me, I pulled back the hood on Ian’s stroller. And my breath caught.
Ian pale white skin practically glowed in the sunshine, and a dusting of pale freckles decorated his cheeks, which were also painted a bright pink since he’d been crying. His eyes, the lightest ice blue I’d ever seen, were wide and lined with thick lashes. And his head was covered in round, orange curls that Lexie and Fletcher refused to cut. As soon as I peered in at him, he put his hands out and grinned so wide, half a cup of drool dribbled out.
I picked him up and cradled him to my shoulder, relishing in the way it felt as Ian nuzzled into my neck. “You’re not so bad, are you?” I whispered to his curly head, automatically starting to sway back and forth in place, like some sort of insta-mom. “Don’t tell your mommy I said so, though, mmm’kay?” He cooed his reply, and soaked my shirt with warm drool. “Hey, easy now. That was expensive.”
But I didn’t move him. Instead, I pressed my nose to his hair and drew in a long, deep breath of his baby-cookie-slobbery aroma.
You know, my favorite scents used to be expensive men’s cologne and beluga caviar. Now a days, I craved the scent of baby Ian, pizza served out of a box, and surly, unshaven mechanics. In no particular order.
“That baby likes you,” Ellie told me, stopping her bouncing and staring up at me. “You should be a mommy someday.”
“Cool it, kid,” I said down at her with a contented smile. “I haven’t even got a boyfriend.”
She seemed to think about that for a minute, and I ignored it as everyone down by the pond stopped what they were doing and watching in wonder as I comforted Lexie’s baby. Good grief, they were acting like they saw a unicorn.
Ellie stuck a finger in the air proudly. “Then go get one at the store!”
Snorting, I rubbed circles on Ian’s back. If only it were that simple…
Chapter Twelve
I lifted a dolma out of the pan with painstaking gentleness and examined it. The grape leaf had held up beautifully while I cooked it, and now there was nary a fleck of rice or lamb sticking out of its perfectly tucked envelope. Drawing in a long pull of the aroma, I smiled to myself. Lemon, cinnamon, pine nuts, cardamom. The salty, briny scent of grape leaves. It was perfection.
This was it. The batch that would prove my superior ethic food cooking skills. I couldn’t wait to call Lexie at home to brag about it.
“Looks like I didn’t need to seduce Demo Antonopolous after all.” I muttered to myself, blowing on the dolma. “He can suck it.”
Okay, so I was bitter. It had been a week since my little pow wow with Yiayia, and I still hadn’t heard from Demo. And sure, I could call him myself. God knew I’d never been afraid to pursue a man before. I was probably a little more adept at that than what was socially acceptable.
But not when it came to Demo. He was different. He threw me off of my game, made me self conscious in ways I’d not been since puberty, and he made me feel the ultimate worst way any woman could ever feel: vulnerable.
Shuddering, I turned off the burner and slid the pot of dolmades off of the heat. The Eats & Treats kitchen was empty, and the late evening sun was pouring through the windows, which was how I preferred it when I was trying new recipes. It was no fun to screw up a recipe with a hungry coworker standing there, waiting to be fed.
Hopping onto the stainless steel table, I gathered my hair into a messy bun on top of my head and un-tied the strings of my apron. When I tugged it off, chunks of parsley and rice fell from the front of my shirt. I’d been cooking all day long and most of my makeup had melted off while I sautéed shitake mushrooms in red wine earlier. I was pretty sure I looked and smelled like a drunken lesbian.
Not that there was anything wrong with that.
There was a knock on the glass door at the front of the shop, and I rolled my eyes. The neighboring music store employees were infamous for coming over to score free foods off of us, but I wasn’t in the mood. I’d been rolling these dolmades for two hours, and I wanted to be left alone to relish in my accomplishment.
“We’re closed!” I hollered, before gazing lovingly at the dolma. “Here goes nothing, my pretty,” I whispered, taking a big bite.
As soon as my teeth cut into the grape leaf, it disintegrated, and the contents—which were mushy and clumped into on giant wad of what tasted
like Greek bubble gum—rolled down the front of my black shirt, leaving greasy spots of olive oil in its wake. The consistency of the bite in my mouth was what I was pretty sure would happen if Elmer’s Glue and wet paper towels had a baby. It was gross. Super gross.
“Shit. Double shit.” I muttered, throwing the remaining grape leaf into the nearby sink. “Nunca voy a conseguir este derecho!”
A deep, gravelly voice interrupted my pity party. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”
“GAH!” I turned around with a jerk to find Demo leaning against the kitchen doorway, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing his trademark torn up jeans, a dark grey tee shirt that had seen better days, and a smirk. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Your work address was on your business card.” He shrugged. “I drove by on a tow job and saw that the light was still on.”
I scowled at him. “You scared me. What’s wrong with you? I could have shot you!”
He laughed, the sound rumbly and undeniably masculine. “With what?”
I looked around, and grabbed a fork. “With this. Or… a gun. I have a gun, you know.”
“So you said. You know, you don’t seem like the gun toting type.”
Gritting my teeth together, I marched over to where my Hermes purse was buried underneath a pile of aprons, towels, and Bon Appetite magazines. After a twenty second search to the bottom of the bag, I emerged, holding up my Smith & Wesson .38 special, air weight. I’d bought it for myself a couple of years before, when a woman in Spokane had been sexually assaulted in the park near Eats & Treats. Better safe than sorry, right?
Too bad I was perpetually leaving my purse at work and in the car. And still hadn’t found the time, or the desire, to let Brian teach me how to shoot it.
Oh, well. I had it now. “Ta da,” I sang.
“Holy hell!” Demo ducked, and held his hands up. “Good Lord, put that thing away. You could’ve killed me.”
“That’s what I was trying to say!” I yelled, making sure the safety was on and tucking it back into the handbag. “I wish I would’ve had my purse handy when you tried breaking in the other night. Then you wouldn’t have made fun of Agnes’ skillet.”
Demo stood back upright, his eyes were wide. “Why in the world do you have that thing?”
“A single woman can’t be too careful,” I said smartly.
“Well you sure didn’t have it handy on the night of Greg, did you?” I pressed my lips together. It figured Demo would bring that up. Upon seeing my expression, he added, “Or like you said, the night I scared you and your neighbor.”
I peered over his shoulder. “How did you get in here? We’re closed.”
“So you said.” Demo leaned against a table casually. “The door was unlocked.”
I slapped my forehead. “I can’t even tell you how many times I reminded Lexie to lock the door on her way out.”
“Lexie?”
“My business partner. And friend.”
“That the blonde who dropped you off at the shop that day?”
Shaking my head I leaned against the table a few feet apart from Demo. “No. That was Candace. She’s another friend.”
“You got a lot of friends,” he commented.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t?”
Demo offered a halfhearted shrug. “Got a few. Don’t really need many. Got a big family.”
“My friends are my family.” As soon as I said it, I surprised myself. I’d always deliberately kept Candace and Lexie and their families at arms’ length. I could still hear my dad swirling his glass of single malt scotch, saying, better to stay unattached. But the truth was… I was very attached.
Suddenly I was craving scotch. “I would’ve assumed you don’t have very many friends because you’re so cranky all the time.”
“I’m not cranky.” He frowned. “At least not with everyone.”
Time to get my flirt on. “Oh, am I special?”
His expression softened. Just a little. “Maybe.”
My insides started to twist up like a Cirque Du Soliel performance. Be cool, I reminded myself. He’s just a guy, like any other. You’ve got the upper hand here, just—
“Really?” I blurted, my voice cracking.
Well, crap.
Demo’s smile returned.
I cut him off before he could make some biting remark. “Special enough to jam your tongue down my throat, then ignore me for a week. Right?” I folded my arms across my chest and waited for his answer.
He mirrored my pose. “You don’t strike me as the type of gal who needs a call the next morning after a single kiss.”
Well, he had me there.
“What if Agnes hadn’t been there.” I swallowed, and avoided looking directly at that crooked smile. “What if more had happened between us? Would you have called?”
His eyes narrowed. “No.”
“No?” Okay, now I was ticked. I was usually so good at reading men, I could predict not only that their shirts would hit my bedroom floor, but when during the date it would, right down to the minute. When men wanted me, I could tell. When men were turned on by me, I knew long before their bodies, ahem, showed it. I knew ancient Egyptian ways of using my tongue on a man that were illegal in three states.
So why was it that I couldn’t read Demo at all?
I glared at him. “Now, listen here—”
“Whoa. Take a breath.” He put his hands out. “Let me finish.”
“Has anybody ever told you that you’re bipolar?” I hissed.
Demo nodded. “Once or twice. Can I finish, please?”
“Fine.”
He took a step closer to me. “I wouldn’t have called the next day, because I wouldn’t have gone to bed with you.”
I opened my mouth. Then shut it. Then opened it again. And shut it. My words had apparently abandoned me for the first time in… say, ever. Embarrassment flushed my cheeks with heat.
Demo’s eyes bored into mine, a wrinkle forming between his brows. I couldn’t tell if he was irritated or just intense. “And I wouldn’t have gone to bed with you, because you’re different.”
Hope sprouted inside of my chest like a seed. “Different?” I asked hoarsely. “Is that supposed to sweep me off my feet?”
One of his eyebrows ticked upward. “Did it?”
“No.”
“You see? That’s what makes you different.” Demo rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully, creating a scratching sound that made goose bumps pique on my arms. “Most of the time, you seem so unaffected by me.”
Well, that was interesting. I allowed myself to smile. Just a little. “And you’re used to women usually being affected by you.”
He shook his head. “Don’t put it that way. That makes it sound so cocky.”
“Well, isn’t it?” I laughed.
“Yeah, but you feel the same way about men.” When my smile dropped, Demo took another step closer. “Don’t you?”
I tightened my grip around myself. “What makes you say that?”
“You seemed surprised that I didn’t fall at your feet the first day we met.” He swallowed, and his adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re confident. Way more confident than a lot of the women I know.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
He narrowed his eyes, just a little. “You know that can be intimidating for a guy, right?”
Smiling despite myself, I chuckled. “I’m counting on it. But you’re confident, too. That’s why you’re so aloof. You don’t feel the need to impress anyone. Am I right?”
Demo stood up straighter. “Why should I? People usually love me or hate me, and it isn’t because of anything I do or don’t do. Usually I have nothing to do with it.”
“Seems we’re cut from the same cloth, Mr. Antonopolous.” I took a deep breath, then released it slowly. “I find that men like me long before they get to know me. It’s when they get to know me that they’re heading for the door. And most of the time, I’m fine
with them going.”
His lips tugged upward. “Women do that with me all the time. They love me, and want to marry me, and want to have my babies… until I talk. Then they’re on to the next prospect. Well, most of them, anyhow.”
“Cocky, much?” I teased.
“Nah. Just honest to a fault.” He looked around the room, his cheeks coloring. “So you’re a single woman in her late twenties—”
“Thirties.” When he looked down at me with those dark eyes, I added, “I’m thirty-two. But nice use of subtle compliments. Well played, sir.”
He grinned. “Thought you’d appreciate that. So, you’re divorced? Never married? What?”
“Never married. Never wanted to. Yet.” I cringed inwardly when I added that.
Demo tapped one of his callused fingers on the stainless steel tabletop. “And you’re a business owner.”
“A successful business owner,” I said quickly.
“That’s what I meant.” He smiled. “And you own a nice house in a really nice neighborhood.”
“So?” I poked him in the chest. It was solid. Very solid. “What’s your point?”
Demo brought his eyes back to mine. There was something behind his usual conceited smirk. Tenderness in his eyes that I’d not seen before, and it looked great on him. “You’re not the kind of woman a guy like me goes to bed with.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted, so I decided to be both. “Um, thanks. Or, rather, what?”
“You’re not a roll in the hay kind of girl,” Demo explained, dropping his hands at his sides, where they hung limply. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
The excitement of being this close to him fizzled, and the heavy weight of the truth pushed down on my shoulders. In an instant, my arms hung at my own sides the same way. “Honestly, Demo? I am a roll in the hay kind of girl.” When one of his eyebrows rose, I swatted at his middle. “Oh, don’t get too excited there, chief. It’s not an invitation. It’s more of a… confession.”
“You Catholic?” he asked.
“Not unless you count dressing up like a slutty nun for Halloween last year,” I said sadly. “Demo, I’ve never been in a serious relationship. I go from man to man, and adventure to adventure, because I’m too chicken shit to commit.”
