by Beth Vogt
“Yes, I’ll go out with you.”
It was useless to resist the man—and did she even want to? “Yes, I’ll go out with you.”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”
“Tonight?”
“No, this morning. See you then.”
When he hung up, Sadie stared at the screen. This morning?
Where were they going? What should she wear—and how was she supposed to be ready in an hour?
When Erik showed up, Sadie had showered and changed into a pair of comfortable jeans—ones that she normally wore around the house. She accessorized them with a yellow sweater, opting to wear her hair loose. She applied her makeup but finally gave in and slipped on her glasses, an admission to a lurking headache. In all the years they’d known each other, Erik might have seen her wear her glasses a dozen times.
When she opened the door after Erik’s knock, the first words out of his mouth were, “Forgive me?”
He bowed his head, looking at her through lowered lashes, his bottom lip poking out like a pouty three-year-old’s.
No way was she responding to that. “Overdoing it a bit, aren’t you?”
“And I thought I had it down pretty well.”
“I know you too well.”
“I disagree.” He lifted her hand and pressed a warm kiss against it. “You know me perfectly.”
Sadie fought the desire to step into Erik’s arms and give him a real good-morning kiss. She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her best friend, but she liked it—a lot.
“So where are we going?”
“To breakfast.”
“Perfect. I’m starving.” Sadie linked her arm through his, enjoying the feel of his fingers intertwined between hers. “And where are we going for breakfast?”
“Have you ever gone to the Brown Palace’s brunch?”
“No—but isn’t that served on Sundays?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know that when I planned this date. And the Broadmoor’s brunch is—”
“On Sunday too.”
“And it’s also where you did your culinary training, so why would you want to go eat there?”
“Well, there is that.”
Erik ushered her into his car. “I did find a very elite place to eat.”
“Really? Where?”
“My apartment. I thought I’d make you breakfast.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry. We’re being chaperoned.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. If we’re going to be careful about being alone in your house now that we’re dating, we need to uphold the same standards at my apartment.”
She had to wait to continue the conversation until Erik was settled in the driver’s seat. “You did not ask someone to come to your house and chaperone us. We’re adults, not teenagers.”
“Agreed.” Erik offered her a quick smile. “The question is: Which is the worse temptation?”
Good question. This grown-up Erik was much more tempting than the eighteen-year-old version. “Erik, who is at your house?”
“Nobody yet—but there will be.”
Once they arrived, Sadie gripped her seat belt. “I am not getting out of this car until you tell me who else is going to be joining us for breakfast.”
He covered her hand with his. “You know me better than anyone, right?”
“Ye-es.”
“Well, then come to my apartment, knowing that I am perfectly trustworthy. Nothing is going to happen—except breakfast.”
“It never occurred to me that anything else might happen.”
“Of course not. And I’ll try not to be hurt that the thought of kissing me again hasn’t kept you awake.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Really? That’s nice to know.”
“Let’s go have breakfast, please.”
Erik needed to remember that this morning was about breakfast—waffles, bacon, orange juice—and nothing else. But he’d need to work hard to concentrate on cooking and not on whether Sadie would let him kiss her again before the end of the day. Or the bigger question: Was Sadie having anything besides “best friend” feelings for him?
No matter what, he had a plan in place to ensure the only thing they indulged in at his apartment was breakfast.
Once Sadie was settled at the table—cleared of the pile of mail and magazines—he opened his laptop and activated Skype.
“We’re Skyping with someone?”
“Phillip and Ashley. I don’t think Annalisa is joining us.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hold on a second.” Erik activated the video chat. “Hey, Phillip.”
“Morning, Erik.” Phillip’s hair looked damp, as if he’d just showered. “Sadie there?”
“Yes.” He positioned the laptop so Phillip could see Sadie. Phillip waved, prompting Sadie to wave back.
Phillip cleared his throat and put on his best I-mean-business face. “Okay, so here are the ground rules for you two: Keep the laptop powered up and open while you’re having breakfast. Keep Skype open at all times. And you stay where we can see you. Pretty simple. Other than that, enjoy yourselves.”
“Where’s Ashley?”
“She’s getting Annalisa dressed. She’ll be joining the Skype session too—Ashley, not the baby. I’ll be sitting over here working on my sermon about self-control.”
“Subtle. Very subtle.” Erik tossed his friend a salute. “Well, I’m going to get started.”
“Do you want any help?” Sadie half-rose from her seat.
“No, thank you. I’m the chef today. But I do have some orange juice if you’d like—freshly squeezed.”
“You’re kidding me.” Sadie retrieved two small glasses from the table and joined him in the kitchen.
“Well, that’s what it said on the label. And it has pulp in it too.”
“Hey, you two!” Phillip’s voice came from the laptop screen. “Can’t see you.”
Erik pulled a container of juice from the fridge. “Will you carry the laptop in here, please?”
“Sure.”
When she returned, Erik was setting up a Belgian-waffle maker.
“Waffles?”
“Yep—homemade, if you ignore the mix. And do you prefer sausage or bacon?”
“Bacon.”
“Ah, a woman after my own heart. I have both—but why zap sausage in the microwave if we both want bacon?”
He was showing Sadie the extent of his cooking skills. But once it was all made—and served on real plates, not paper—she’d be impressed.
She sipped from the glass of juice, angling her hip against the counter. “Is there anything you want me to do?”
“Just stand there and look pretty. I’ve got this.”
Sadie shook her head, as if dismissing his comment.
“What?”
“Nothing. Forget about it. Focus on your waffles.”
“Are you disagreeing with the ‘I’ve got this part’—or the ‘look pretty’ part?”
Sadie waved away his question. “Don’t mind me. Show me your skills, chef.”
“Hey.” Erik took her hand, pulling her close, and using his other hand to tilt her chin up so she had to make eye contact with him. “I don’t care if you know I’m a lousy cook—you’ve probably already figured that out. But you have to know you’re beautiful to me.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, when she looked away. “Sadie?”
“It’s okay, Erik. I don’t want to talk about it.” She motioned toward the laptop on the counter. “We’re not alone.”
“He can’t hear us. Besides, he’s deep into Greek verbs by now.” Erik lowered his voice. “Do you remember asking me to the Sadie Hawkins Dance?”
She sniffed and offered him the hint of a smile. “Of course I do. You said no and practically ran to homeroom.”
“You want to know why I said no?”
“I know why—you didn’t want to go with me.”
> “Nope.” Erik traced the curve of her face with the back of his hand. Her skin was so soft. “I couldn’t believe a cute girl like you was asking a nobody like me to the dance.”
“What?”
He pressed a kiss to her temple. Today the scent of vanilla lingered in her hair. “I thought it was a joke—like maybe your girlfriends were watching, laughing.”
“After all I went through in grade school—wearing an eye patch and being teased? Being called a pirate by those mean girls?”
“Well, I didn’t know that then, did I?”
“No, I guess you didn’t.”
“All I knew was this cute girl with long brown hair asked me out to a dance . . . and I was too scared to say yes.” Erik slipped his arms around Sadie’s waist, easing her closer. “If you asked me today, I’d say yes. And the whole time we were dancing, I’d be wondering if . . .”
“You’d be wondering if . . . ?”
“If you’d let me kiss you goodnight.”
“I don’t believe in kissing on the first date.”
“But this is our third date.”
“We were discussing the Sadie Hawkins Dance that never was.”
“Were we?” He pressed a kiss to one corner of Sadie’s mouth.
“Yes.”
“If you say so.” He swept his lips across hers and pressed a kiss on the opposite corner of her mouth, noticing how she stopped breathing. How her lips trembled beneath his.
Kissing Sadie was becoming a take-his-breath-away habit. Something he’d like to do every day of his life. The way she’d leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and then slipping them up around his back and pulling him closer, made him think that maybe, just maybe, she enjoyed kissing him too. The way she exhaled his name on a sigh as he sought the warm curve of her throat, and then ran her fingers through his hair and gently tugged him back to her and whispered, “Kiss me again.”
She didn’t have to ask him twice.
They weren’t eighteen-year-olds on a roller coaster, but Erik felt as if he were falling . . . falling deeper in love with the woman in his arms. And he wasn’t letting her go this time.
“Hey! Hey! I’m still here!” A sharp, staccato rapping pulled Erik away from Sadie.
He opened his eyes as she buried her face in his shoulder. “Who is that?”
“Um, we forgot about Phillip.” Sadie’s voice was muffled. “On your computer.”
He cradled the back of her head with his hand. “I guess we did.” An acrid plume of smoke billowed from the waffle maker on the counter. “And we forgot the waffles, which are now burned.”
“Oh, Erik. I’m so sorry.” She stepped out of his embrace. “Let me clean up this mess and fix breakfast.”
“Absolutely not. I’m fixing you breakfast—but you have to stop being a beautiful distraction. Go. Sit over there and talk with Phillip and Ashley. I’ll clean up this . . . charcoal . . . and start again.”
Sadie ran her finger along the edge of the folder where it lay on her desk, then tapped it with her fingers.
Decisions, decisions.
Did she take the job in Oregon or didn’t she?
When she got home from work, she received an unexpected phone call from the Hartnetts’ friend in Oregon, who spent a good thirty minutes discussing the culinary school and the possible ways she could use Sadie’s skills. The information compiled by the Hartnetts—magazine articles about Portland, a spreadsheet detailing salaries for private chefs nationwide with a suggested salary—was fanned out across her dining room table. And of course, her parents, who lived in Northern California, loved the idea of their only child being closer.
Why not say yes? Embrace a new dream for her life?
But what about her life here? What was happening between her and Erik?
Could it become something real? Permanent?
And how was she supposed to know?
Pray.
Wait.
It was November and the Hartnetts needed an answer—soon. Because if she wasn’t going to move with them, then they needed time to find another private chef. Someone else . . . preparing meals for Jilly and Carter. The thought refused to settle. She’d been cooking for the family for three years. She knew their likes. Their dislikes. That Jilly liked chocolate cake with chocolate icing for her birthday. That Carter liked baked macaroni and cheese, heavy on the cheese. That Mr. Hartnett preferred lamb and Mrs. Hartnett loved fresh salmon. She’d invested not just time and culinary expertise into the family, she’d invested her heart.
Yes, she and Erik were best friends exploring a romance . . . but she’d never seen Erik commit to a woman. Never in the seventeen years she’d known him. And even if she cut him slack for high school—because, really, what guy knows what he wants in high school?—that still meant he’d never committed to anyone in thirteen years.
Why would Sadie be any different?
So, Erik, is this relationship going anywhere, um, permanent?
No. Absolutely not. She’d already proposed to him once. And his answer to her silly proposal made it clear he wasn’t looking for “’Til death do us part.”
Did Sadie even realize how many times he had to stop himself from saying, “I love you”?
Was she ready to take their relationship past the point of no return? They’d always been “just friends,” but he wasn’t content living on that side of loving Sadie any longer. He wanted the all of loving her.
He knew her better than anyone, but now, as they walked through her neighborhood after he’d surprised her by showing up with hot chocolate from the coffee shop two blocks from her house, he couldn’t figure out what she was thinking, much less how she felt about him.
“You okay?”
“Me? Sure. I’m fine.” Sadie’s gaze stayed focused on the horizon. “I’ve just got some things on my mind.”
He let his heart lead his actions, put his arm around her waist, and pulled her close. This is what he wanted. Sadie by his side. Sadie in his life. Always.
Her shoulders shifted against him as she sighed. “Remember I told you the Hartnetts are moving to Oregon—and that they want me to move with them as their personal chef?”
“I remember.”
“I need to give them an answer this week.”
“And?” Erik stared straight ahead, the sidewalk stretching out in front of them, covered with fallen leaves.
“And . . . I need to give them an answer.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“I love the Hartnetts.”
She loved the Hartnetts. What did she feel for him? Where did he stand compared to a family of four that she cooked for once a week?
“I’ve invested three years of my life in that family. I know them—their likes, their dislikes. I hate the thought of them leaving.”
And what about leaving me, Sadie? Erik gritted his teeth, holding back the question.
“I mean, I’ve lived in Colorado all my life . . . and I love it here . . . but Oregon sounds beautiful too. It sounds like fun to move . . . to experience something new.”
Erik shifted, putting a bit of distance between them.
“And I’d be closer to my parents. They’re excited about that possibility. So . . . there are reasons to stay and reasons to go.” Halting beneath a leafless tree, she looked up at him. “What do you think?”
What did he think? He knew Sadie—had known her since she was thirteen. Watched her pursue with passion her dream of cooking . . . paying her way when her parents said no, insisting she needed to go to college, not settle for cooking school. He was crazy in love with her—his best friend. But they were best friends first. And best friends did not stand in the way of each other’s dreams.
What if he asked her to stay . . . and she resented him? And then left a few months later anyway? He knew exactly how that felt—watching someone you love leave you, no matter how many times you asked them to stay.
And what could he offer her, really, besides the promis
ing beginnings of his decision to be his own boss? He’d done his life solo for so many years. He had no experience with how relationships—family—worked. What if he told her that he loved her—and then failed her?
The word “Stay” stalled in his throat, stuck behind, “I love you.”
“I think . . . I think you should go, if that’s what you want to do. You’d do a great job. And when the head of the culinary school meets you face-to-face, she’ll realize what an asset you’ll be and try and steal you away from the Hartnetts.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. You’re going places, Sadie J.”
“Yeah. I guess I am.” She moved away from him, her steps foreshadowing the future. “I guess I am.”
“What do you mean Erik told you to leave?”
“Oh, Mel.” Sadie sat at her friend’s dining room table, staring down a bowlful of her signature minestrone soup. “I asked him what he thought I should do about the Hartnetts’ job offer—and he said I should go.”
“That’s it?” Mel held a grater in one hand and a block of Parmesan cheese in the other.
“Yes.”
“He thought you should go—and nothing else?”
“Yes. He thought I should go . . . if that’s what I wanted to do.” Sadie stared at the steam rising off the bowl of soup. “Or something like that.”
“Aha!” Mel began grating cheese with a frenzy.
“Aha what?”
“He doesn’t want you to go. I knew it.”
“Mel, he never said he didn’t want me to go. And we are not discussing this anymore.” Sadie stirred the mixture of pasta, vegetables, and broth with her spoon. “I’m getting a headache.”
Mel settled into the seat across from her. “You’re going to listen to me, headache or no headache.”
“Lower your voice. And the last time I listened to you, I agreed to go out with my best friend—and I ended up freaking out on TV.”
“And that little fiasco is behind you. You survived, with a little emotional wear and tear, but dreams intact.” Mel watched her from across the table. “Sadie, do you love Erik?”
“I’m not answering that question—”
The slam of Mel’s spoon rattled the table. “Answer. The. Question.”
