In no way a foodie or anything that came close to being like Gordon Ramsey, he was just an American boy raised on his mom’s home cooking, and that fact alone went a long way.
His mom was one of those ‘here is why we do things’ types who transformed practically every moment of every day into a learning opportunity. He and Marsh could cook, sew on a button if necessary, do laundry in a way that wasn’t a complete disaster, and scrapbook like a motherfucker.
Yep. Scrapbook. Don’t be hatin’
Tonight’s mindless culinary offering was a basic chopped salad … organic vegetables only, thank you very much, and a throw together pasta pot that he hoped Paige would enjoy.
She was staying for dinner whether she wanted to or not. He’d tie her ass to a chair if he had to. No way was he letting her skip out after the day they’d had.
And he wasn’t referring to the Gideon kerfuffle.
Two opposing viewpoints around his relationship with Paige had crashed head-on and, between one moment and the next, they’d crossed that invisible line—the one that tore the lid off everything. Where once there had been nothing but iron-willed control, there was now a million unlimited possibilities.
She wasn’t going anywhere until they had talked about what was happening. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Adding a second heavy bottom pot to the cooktop, he made quick work of some garlic, onion, Portobellos, fresh tomatoes, and finely diced carrots while his mind clocked in at maximum overdrive.
Keeping an eye on the softening veggies, his forehead furrowed from the effort of taking in the magnitude of how altering the dynamic of their association would change things.
As fucked up as it sounds, he’d never been best friends with any of his previous lovers. Not like he was with Paige.
Edward snorted disbelief. No, seriously man. I’m being real here.
On some level, he supposed, his high school girlfriend had been close, but the tell was in how he framed that thought. She’d been close, yeah, because he’d allowed it. But he’d be full of shit trying to make the case that the exchange was intentional.
It wasn’t.
He was a horny teenager with one thing and one thing only on his mind. She was the adoring girlfriend who gave in to his horn-dog demands because, and probably only because, he’d let her in enough for her to think she was different. What they had—special.
In other words … Teenage Fuckery 101.
Then there was his brief foray at the university with all the college insanity that was so much a part of the growing up experience. But after that? Fuck. After that, he’d gone Army all the way, where stuff like emptying his balls took on a new meaning when staying alive was a twenty-four-seven reality.
It wasn’t until his life collided with Paige Turner’s that he finally knew what it meant to have a true friend. Especially one of the female persuasion. Keeping that friendship was vital to his sanity, which was precisely why they had to talk.
Once he was satisfied that dinner was covered, he pulled a bottle from the wine refrigerator, uncorked it, and set the red Zin next to a couple of wine glasses on the table, where he removed his makeshift apron and tossed it aside.
She’d been at it long enough. No amount of working the phones or crisis management was going to change what had already happened. Time for her to downshift.
Plodding barefoot to the study, Edward paused outside the French doors and listened. Nothing. Good. He didn’t want to wrangle the phone from her hands any more than he wanted to talk about business right now.
Quickly rounding the doorway, he stepped into the room. He found her hunched over, forearms resting on her thighs, with her hands clasped between her knees. Head down, it was bobbing as if she was coming to a decision.
She glanced up and froze when she saw him. Her eyes flared. Actually, really and truly flared like the pop of sparks at the end of a July 4th glory torch.
Pfft. Being a visual sort of a guy had its advantages. Now he was thinking of Paige in firecracker terms. Cool.
“Made dinner.”
She blinked, tilted her head, blinked again, and the corner of her mouth quirked up.
“So my nose gathered,” she quipped. “Bit heavy handed with the garlic, don’t you think?”
Banter. He could do banter.
Gesturing to her discarded phone, he said, “Garlic is an aphrodisiac. Ask Mickey.” With a shrug of feigned innocence, he further explained, “Something about eating garlic on Fridays to promote love and arouse desire.”
Her amused laugh made him smile.
“But it isn’t Friday,” she cooed with a smirking wink.
He couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that she was playing along, and it wasn’t about giving as good as she got. Paige wasn’t a game player, and she was hands down, next to his mom, of course, the most clever girl he’d ever encountered. She knew they were ushering in a new dynamic in their relationship. And she wasn’t pushing back. At all.
Folding his arms across his chest, his mouth twitched with a smile he fought while he gave her his best movie star leer. “Consider it research then.”
She stood. A deep chuckle rumbled between lips pressed together while she worried one corner with her teeth. “Mmmhmm. Research. Quick thinking, Banning.”
He grinned.
“Wash your hands, Turner,” he drawled. “Then get your ass in gear and set the table. Make yourself useful, woman.”
She was coming around the table as he finished, and without thinking, he reached out and swatted her behind as she tried to scoot by.
Her yelp of surprise struck him as endlessly funny. He’d just smacked Paige Turner on the ass, and she hadn’t throttled him.
Fuck yeah, this was going to be fun.
“Hands, Mr. Banning,” she mockingly admonished while rubbing her behind.
And then he lost his ever-loving mind. With a gesture that felt totally natural, he reached his hand out and curled it around her neck, pulling her to him.
“Mouth, Miss Turner,” he replied.
He hadn’t intended to kiss her, but she’d set it up with her flirty manner.
It wasn’t a long kiss, but it certainly was deep. Offering zero resistance, she let him take her mouth through a soft brush of lips and on to something firmer until she gave in and opened—an invitation he quickly accepted. The second the unhurried dance of their tongues started to get out of hand, he softened the kiss and gently led her back till their mouths drew slowly apart.
Every fantasy he’d ever had about Paige was confirmed when her taste, a combination of the mints she seemed to live on and something else—something more sweet and pleasurable than he ever imagined—filled his senses.
Releasing her, he swiped his thumb over the corner of her mouth, gathering the remnants of the kiss. Then, with their eyes locked, he sucked the end of his thumb.
“More research?” Her voice was hushed and breathy.
He gave her a half shrug and smiled. “Think of it as before and after.”
There it was again. That flare in her eyes.
“You are a bad man,” she teased, shoving against his chest for effect.
He considered taking the moment further—she was being awfully receptive—but it suddenly struck him like a speeding freight train that this wasn’t about seducing Paige. Not at all.
Well, maybe in the classic sense he was, but definitely not in society’s translation of the word.
There would be no random hook-up with this woman. No hormonal explosion to satisfy an urge. What was happening between them was fucking huge. They were friends first and that one, important fact could not be ignored.
“No. No, I’m not, babe,” he countered solemnly. “Best you remember that, hmm?”
Her expression was uncharacteristically flustered. She nodded at him as she bit her lip again. He’d not seen this side of Paige before.
“Um, just give me a, uh…minute.” Her eyes lowered as she tried to hide her thoughts f
rom him. He was okay with that. They were venturing into uncharted territory, and he understood she needed time to regroup.
“Meet you in the kitchen,” he murmured after a quick kiss on her forehead.
“You can’t feed me like this and not expect me to explode,” she grumbled after inhaling more food than would seem humanly possible. Dammit, but the man was a better cook than she was.
Edward chuckled as he took their empty plates to the sink. “Nobody put a gun to your head.”
They’d had many meals together over the years from your run-of-the-mill, fast food park-and-stuff to the formal elegance of an award ceremony, but nothing quite like what Edward and she had just shared.
Her dash to the bathroom under the guise of washing up was necessary to shut down the chain reaction his lips on hers had started.
Oh, my god. That kiss.
When she’d rejoined him in the kitchen, it was as if nothing had changed, even though it so had. Despite the upsets of the day, he was in a great mood, which she secretly hoped was because of her. He was singing along to a country song, quite a bit off key because Edward was amusingly tone deaf. Quite the opposite of the auto-tuned fake job Gideon Shaw gave on film. She loved that the real man wasn’t perfect. The cooking was bad enough. If he could sing too, well … that would have just been wrong on so many levels.
After quickly setting the table, it was time for him to have the stage—which he managed in that larger than life way he had that came so easily to him. Like a five-star celebrity chef hamming it up on camera, he took them through a meal that was as delicious as he was charming.
They ate and talked. Talked and ate. Drained a bottle of her favorite wine. Teased. Laughed. Joked around. It was perfection.
And why was it perfection? Because, at the end of the day, when all the superfluous noise and distractions were stripped away, they were friends. Good friends. This part of who they were was comfortable and familiar.
“Got room for dessert?”
His question brought Paige out of her thoughts. She glanced at the clock, noted that the sun had set on another glorious day, and sighed. Her phone had buzzed almost nonstop through dinner, but she had ignored it.
Pushing back from the table, she rose and shook her head. “Not unless you plan to wheel me out of here in a barrel!”
He laughed easily. “Okay, but coffee on the deck and then a sober check before I let you get in a car.”
“Ooooh.” She giggled. “Maybe you could put on that cop uniform from Hands Up?”
The reference to one of his rom-com roles earned a groan and a mocking eye roll. “The uniform makes you hot, huh?”
“Ha! You wish …” She hooted.
Had her ribbing small talk stepped on his feelings? Maybe it had because he suddenly got serious.
“You’d be surprised what I wish, babe.”
Er, uh … oh, my. Edward had always called her ‘babe,’ but when he said it now, his emphasis on the casual word got her blood pumping.
Scooping up the pile of silverware they’d used, along with their empty wine glasses, she marched to the sink where he’d turned as they talked, leaning against the countertop.
“You know what they say about wishes.”
The loud clanging of the utensils as she tossed them into the farm sink sounded jarring in the current atmosphere.
“No, what do they say?” Amazingly, he really did sound miffed.
Paige eyeballed the snug white t-shirt covering his chest and wondered if it smelled like him. She bet it did.
Wouldn’t mind wearing that to bed.
Clearing her throat, she mirrored his posture; leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, she nudged him with her shoulder.
“Jeez, I have no idea!” She chuckled when he jolted at her side.
“Are you serious? You have no idea? Then why make the statement?”
Paige couldn’t help it—she laughed in his face when he turned on her, dropping his hands to his waist and stood there looking at her as if she was crazy. He mumbled something that she didn’t quite catch then stomped heavily to the coffeemaker.
“Say again?”
Snapping the lid shut on the small appliance, he pushed a couple of buttons and shot her a wary look.
“I said … your flirting leaves a lot to be desired.”
Her mouth formed an O, but the word hung silently in the air. He was more than a little bit right. Flirting wasn’t something she was good at; she hadn’t had much practice. Mostly, she tried not to look like a fool, finding it easier to make intelligent comments and not gush or giggle like a twelve-year-old.
It freaked her out a bit that he had called her on it, but she felt a secret elation that he cared at all.
With an awkwardness that left Paige feeling out of her comfort zone, she reacted with a jerking hesitation, blurting out, “You don’t need a costume to look hot, sweetie. That t-shirt works just fine for me.”
What followed was a short but horrifying lull of silence that seemed destined to end with her cringing in embarrassment. She fidgeted, pushing her hair behind an ear and doing a reflexive lip bite and throat clear.
In the blink of an eye, his frowny face transformed to delight. He started humming one of those Da-da-da-da circus tunes as he went through a dozen different muscle man poses, flexing his biceps and sucking in his abs.
Flirting? He wanted flirting? Okay. Why the hell not? Fanning herself dramatically, she dropped her very best swooning Southern belle act on him, purring, “Oh, my word, Mister Banning. You’re giving me the vapors! All that manliness! I might go blind!”
“And you, Miss Turner, could tempt a bishop with those shorts.”
Her shorts? What was the matter with her shorts? She glanced at her reflection in the wall of windows.
“Oh. Do they make me look like I’m trying too hard?” Eek, what a thought, but that was all she had.
His answering snicker was all sorts of sexy. “Yeah, they do.”
Her face fell. Really? Dammit.
“Trying to make me hard, I mean.”
She looked at him so fiercely her face completely squinched as she tried to make sense of his words. Did he just say what she thought he said?
My god, she was cute as shit standing there staring at him, her face contorted with confusion. Did she truly have no idea of her effect on him? Sounds came from her mouth but never formed words. Mostly, she choked, sputtered, and grunted.
“Coffee’s ready,” he muttered when the stream of black liquid into the big mug stopped. “Grab the half and half, would you?”
Setting her filled mug to the side, he went through the process again to brew another cup. When he glanced at her, she was still standing there gaping at him.
“Babe, snap out of it. Creamer. Come on.”
“Oh, right,” she mumbled, hurrying to the fridge. He’d moved the carton of creamer to the bottom shelf to make room for last night’s takeout leftovers. When she bent over to grab it, he was treated to quite a view of her ass cheeks. His fantasy from earlier—the one where his mouth did a thorough tasting of those long legs—fired him up.
Like he needed any more temptation, sheesh.
Joining him at the coffee zone, he studied her in amused silence as she went about her java ritual.
First, a spoon went into her mouth with the stem hanging out making her look like a crazy one fang walrus. Apparently, to put a cold spoon into a hot beverage was nothing short of sacrilege. So was using a cold container of any kind. Didn’t matter if it was a fancy china teacup or a gargantuan mug—cold was a no-no, so he’d learned to fill her cup with hot water while the coffee brewed. Putting said mug into the microwave for a quick heat-up also fell somewhere between a minor faux pas and a major crime.
With the spoon warming in her mouth, she counted out six yellow packets of sweetener from a canister on the counter. For the mug she was using, it had to be six. Not five and not seven. Six.
Stacking them in a neat pile,
she held the bundle by one end and smacked them against the counter five times. This action made all the powder gather in the bottom of the packets, making it easier to tear all six packets open in one rip.
He knew all these small details because he’d asked her about them once then thoughtfully listened when she’d gone into painstaking detail about her quirky ritual. She said knowing these things mattered in business. More specifically, any business with customers, she’d amended, because playing to the preferences of the folks interacting with your brand—whatever it was—gave you an advantage over the competition. People liked to think they mattered. That you noticed them. So he’d made it a point from then on to study all of Paige’s habits and quirks. As she studied his.
He watched as the sweetener went for a swim before the spoon finally joined in. With a quick flick of her wrist, she whirlpooled the black brew then dribbled in a slow stream of fresh cream. The secret to adding the refrigerated dairy product was watching the color—adding only enough to quickly cool the boil and to bring the proper shade.
Sometimes, she’d told him, if she didn’t stir the coffee first, she’d dump in a big glug of the white stuff then watch while clouds billowed in the blackness. Only Paige could turn making a cup of coffee into a poetic ballet.
When all the proper steps were completed, she gathered the torn paper and tossed the yellow paper scraps into the recycling bin. Paige was also a head case when it came to natural resource issues. Don’t be stupid enough to let the water run while you brushed your teeth unless you wanted to endure the mother of all environmental lectures. When she and his dad got together, it was like having Al Gore at the table.
Ritual completed—all that she had left now was the quick puff of air she blew across the surface of the coffee as she lifted the steaming mug for that first sip.
She probably colored inside the lines too, he thought.
“Mmmmmmmmmm.” And then she was walking for the doors to the deck. “Come on,” she drawled, gesturing for him to follow. “Dibs on the party chair!”
The Gideon Affair Page 9
