“Divorce papers ready to sign.” She smiled brightly.
Too bright.
One could crack a tooth on the intensity of that smile.
His heart did a little dip as she clicked a pen in her hand, flipped through the papers, held the packet up against the wall, and signed at the yellow flags. There was only a brief pause and a slight frown as she scrawled her signature on the last line.
“All done.” She set the papers on the counter, placing the pen on top. “Your turn.”
He stopped shaving for a moment to scribble his own signature on the correct lines, not allowing himself to feel anything other than relief that things were moving forward.
“Should we have champagne or something to celebrate?” She fidgeted with the edge of the paper.
“I think we should have drinks because it sounds fun, not because we’re getting a divorce.” He tried to catch her gaze, but she focused on shoving the papers back in the envelope.
“I’ll get these filed.” She still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
He tilted her chin up with his index finger so their eyes finally met.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine. You?” She bit her lower lip.
“Fine.”
“Good.” She quickly nodded and held the envelope against her chest.
“Good.”
Now who was being weird?
The scent of burnt metal tickled his nose. “Are you cooking something?”
“Dammit.” Marlee turned, bolting toward the kitchen.
He let out a sigh. “Little dude, it’s a good thing I like her.”
He hadn’t had a roommate since he’d moved into his own place after culinary school. Not that they couldn’t coexist in the space together. They could. They did. She was just there. And when she was there, he found himself attracted to her. Their little tumble in the sheets had flipped some kind of switch in him, and his dick wanted to come out and play some more, specifically with her.
Which was a recipe for disaster because they were in the middle of a divorce. Sex had no business in their divorce. Just like feelings had no business in their marriage. And he was starting to worry he had some of those for her, too.
Shaving cream still on half his face, he followed the scent of burning cookware to the kitchen.
She was filling a super expensive copper-core pot he’d never seen before under the tap—she must’ve grabbed it when they got her stuff earlier that day.
Steam and smoke billowed from it.
“What were you cooking?” He pushed open the window over the sink.
“I was getting the pot ready to make pasta. I figured I could handle spaghetti. It’s just sauce and noodles.” She coughed against the steam.
“How do you get a pot ready to make pasta?” He grabbed a towel, fanning the smoke toward the open window.
“I put it on the burner to get it hot. Then I was going to add water and put in the noodles.” She looked at him like this was a totally normal way to make pasta.
He’d roll with it. Different people had different ways of cooking. Some did it the right way. Some did it this way. “What stage were you at?”
“The getting-the-pot-hot stage.” She turned to set the pot back on the burner. “I got distracted.”
“So you literally managed to burn nothing?” Which was a helluva lot better than burning the actual noodles.
“I told you I’m no good in the kitchen.” She huffed.
Yes, she told him she couldn’t cook. He didn’t realize she meant she literally couldn’t cook.
Maybe he should find something for her to do in the office instead of having her help in the kitchen at work.
“Can I help you get the water boiling?” he asked. “We’ll just start over. Go back to the beginning.”
“That would be awesome, chef.” She shoved her hands against her hips.
His staff called him chef. It’d never made his nerves tingle before. Not like when Marlee said it. He moved to turn the stove on for her. His arm brushed hers as he flicked the knob. The nerve endings all over his body stood on end. Wired. Wanting.
A blob of shaving foam dropped from his face into the water.
“Shit.” He wiped at his unshaven cheek, smearing the foam all over his palm.
Marlee looked at him, pressing her lips together.
“Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” The laugh started in her chest, bubbling up.
“That I managed to ruin boiling the water.”
“I won’t say that, then.” Marlee looked like she was making an attempt to stop laughing. A failed attempt. But an attempt nonetheless.
She grabbed the kitchen towel from the counter to wipe off his cheek. He stood there like a total dip and let her do it. Because it felt nice. Marlee touching him felt nice.
He closed his eyes, breathing her in.
“So an engagement party, huh?” she asked.
What? Oh, Jase’s party. Right. He nodded.
“Tuesday is kind of an odd night for an engagement party. That seems more of a Friday or Saturday night kind of soiree.”
“The bar’s slow on Tuesday, so it works better for Brek. The rest of us work a lot of weddings and weekend events, so weekdays are usually best.”
“That sounds fun.” She cocked her head to the side like Lothario had done earlier.
He waited for her to say something.
She didn’t say anything.
She smiled.
He smiled.
Everyone was smiling. No one was talking.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what my plans are tonight?” she finally asked.
He raised his eyebrows in what he figured was a clear invitation for her to spill whatever was on her mind.
She didn’t spill.
“What are you up to?” he asked, mostly so he didn’t go back to that mental place of wanting her touching him. He busied himself by dumping the ruined water, rinsing the pot, and filling it again.
“I’m glad you asked.” She hopped up on the counter next to the stove. “I have no plans tonight.”
That was hard to believe. Marlee had a social calendar that rivaled any of the Hiltons or those housewives on cable.
He set the pot on the stovetop. “That’s not like you.”
“Nope.” Marlee nudged the box of spaghetti pasta back and forth with the tip of her finger. “But apparently, now that I can’t pay for everything, my local friends are all busy.” She made air quotes with her fingers around the word.
“They’re shitty friends.” He dumped a few tablespoons of salt into the water.
“I know that now.” She thinned her lips. “I didn’t know that before. So until Sadie files that paperwork to get my money back and my friends come around, or I convince Sadie or Becca or Kellie to move back, it looks like I’m on my own.” She continued toying with the pasta box. “Tonight, I’ll just Skype with Sadie, Becca, and Kellie…or something.”
Eli could be dense. He knew this. He worked hard not to be. But… Did Marlee want to come to the engagement party?
He hadn’t asked because, well, why would he? They weren’t a couple. But they were friends. And they were currently still married.
She flipped through her phone like it held an invitation to whatever shindig her not-really-friends were hosting and it had her name engraved on it.
“You wanna come?” he asked gently. “You should come. Velma’s excellent in the kitchen, so the grub should be good.”
Better than the burnt nothing they were making at his place.
“Yes,” Marlee said way too quickly. She jumped off the counter. “I want to come. What’s the dress code?”
Uh. “Clothes?”
“What are you wearing?” She looked him over top to bottom. His nerves started to tingle at the blatant inspection.
Uh. “This?”
Jeans and a T-shirt. It was Brek and Velma’s pad, not a formal event.
“Jeans to an engageme
nt party?” Marlee asked, her eyebrows dropping together while she stared at his…jeans.
Uh. “Yeah?”
“Okay. I’ll make it work.” She kissed him on his clean-shaven cheek, her lips pressing against the newly smooth skin in a move that was supposed to be totally platonic. But her lips on his cheek made him want to turn his head toward her mouth so he could kiss her like he really wanted. So he could run his tongue along hers. Press his body into hers so she melted against him like pasta sauce on a plate of noodles.
He didn’t. He just stared into the air like a putz who’d just agreed to go on a date with his wife.
They were late. Eli didn’t do late.
Marlee had taken quite a bit of time to get herself ready for the party. He couldn’t argue with the results. The dress she’d pulled out of one of the many boxes littering his apartment hugged every curve on her body. She was always pretty. Beautiful, really. But that blue dress? That blue dress made Marlee look like she belonged on the arm of a guy with a Ferrari and all access to red-carpet events. Not a caterer with a Jeep Cherokee.
The elevator opened at the hallway to Brek and Velma’s apartment. “You’ll like ’em. They’re good people,” he assured.
“They’re your people, which means I’ll probably love them.” Marlee stopped texting his sister and linked her free arm through his. Her other arm held Lothario in the purse.
While Eli was getting used to a roommate and to her touching him, he was not used to the way his blood heated whenever she did it. The way just that little movement made him want more. It made him want all of her. The touches. The smiles. Everything.
And that was unacceptable.
He was already responsible for the role he played in epically screwing up her life. He was willing to step up. But he couldn’t make himself responsible for her happiness. He did better alone, and it was best he remember that.
With Marlee on one arm and a bottle of wine in the other, he somehow also managed to carry the set of copper mixing bowls he’d bought for Heather and Jase’s kitchen. Heather baked kickass cookies, and she had her own commercial kitchen to do it in. She’d appreciate them. Jase? Eh.
“Brek and Velma are hosting. Heather and Jase are getting married. Claire and Dean will be here, too.” Marlee looked up at him for confirmation. She’d been practicing their names the whole way from the liquor store.
He nodded. “Yep.”
“You were friends with the guys in high school.”
“Yep.”
“Like Becca, Sadie, and me.”
“Yep.”
“Without all the drama we caused.”
“Eh.” He wouldn’t go quite that far. Brek, Dean, and Jase had caused a load of drama. Eli was too busy at home to take part.
“And you’re disappointed because you usually bring food.” She bobbed her head as she spoke to herself. It was cute.
He might’ve mentioned once or twice how bringing food was his thing.
The stop at the liquor store for a bottle of wine had taken a bit longer than usual since Marlee’s tastes ran toward the five-hundred-dollar bottles they kept in the special case and his Visa was more a middle-of-the-road kind of card. They’d finally settled on a respectable Cab Sav that didn’t require a salesperson to pull it from a locked cabinet.
Bringing a bottle of red was okay. But it also made him tug at the collar of the button-down shirt Marlee had insisted—with an abundance of enthusiasm—worked better with her dress. He was a chef. He brought food to these things. However, he hadn’t had a chance since they’d just gotten back, and he had a new roommate—two if he counted Lothario—and he was hustling to fill the gaps in his catering schedule for the months ahead, and he’d just signed divorce papers.
He paused at the door to their apartment, gently disentangling his arm from Marlee’s so he could turn the handle.
“Do we just walk in?” Marlee asked.
His buddy Brek lived there with his wife, Velma, and their kid, Lily. These were his best friends. The ones who knew him, supported him, and had his back. Marlee had her crew—Sadie, Becca, Kellie. He had his—Brek, Jase, Dean. And their wives. Well, Heather and Jase weren’t hitched yet. Hence the engagement party. Point being, none of them knocked anymore when they visited each other.
“Yup.” Eli turned the handle, pushing the door in.
He held the door so Marlee could pass through, swallowing the lump of holy-shit-I-brought-my-wife-to-meet-my-friends lodged in his trachea.
His friends were already there, scattered around the kitchen island. Velma and Brek’s place was a fancy-ass—that was Brek’s description—apartment overlooking Washington Park. Velma had decked the place out in white furniture. Brek had added a ridiculous painting of a pigeon dressed like he was from the 1800s—blue jacket, white ascot, and a look like he was supremely unhappy to be gracing the mantle.
All conversation stopped when Marlee and Eli stepped through the doorway. Six sets of eyes focused intently on the two of them.
His hand seemed to be a magnet to Marlee’s waist. Walking into a room of people she didn’t know must be hard, but he had her back and he wanted her to know. She turned to him, the little smile at the corner of her lips making him feel ten feet tall.
He met her smile with one of his own.
“Sorry I couldn’t cook for this. Just got back to town.” He handed the bottle to Velma.
“Where’d you take off to?” Brek asked, always way too curious for his own good.
Eli grunted because he didn’t want to deal with explanations at that specific moment. Let him get settled. Let him say hello. Then they could deal with it. What he wanted, right then, was a beer.
He beelined for the minibar Brek had set up by the sink. He had it stocked. What else could Eli expect from the owner of Denver’s newest nightspot? The place was a dive, but Brek had quickly made it the go-to spot in Denver if you wanted to hear a good band. He used to manage Dimefront, the current it band, so his connections in the music industry practically made Eli’s boeuf bourguignon look like a box of processed macaroni-and-cheese product.
“Are you going to introduce us to your date?” Dean asked from behind him.
Eli started to grunt a reply to that, but Marlee had it covered.
“Oh, I’m not his date,” Marlee answered. “We’re not dating. And I’m Marlee.”
Eli clocked the moment Dean placed her. Of course, it would’ve been Dean. He followed sports like a Denver super fan. He was also one of Denver’s best financial gurus, so he knew the comings and goings of Denver’s elite families.
“Marlee Medford?” Dean asked. He sounded surprised. Like he knew her. But of course, he knew her. Knew of her, at least. Her parents were practically Denver royalty. Princess Marlee. Anyone who followed sports knew her.
“That’s me.” Marlee was clearly in her element. She loved people. People loved her. These were his people. And he was happy to share them with Marlee. She needed people.
Dean squinted in her direction. “I thought I just read in the paper that you—”
“Don’t go there.” Eli shook his head, his focus on the brown bottle of unopened beer in his palm. Any talk of her ex was forbidden that night. They were there to celebrate the upcoming marriage of his buddy Jase. Not dissect his wife’s failed engagement.
“If you’re not his date…that makes you…?” Velma’s last word hung in the air like a bomb for Jase to diffuse.
Yeah, Jase used to diffuse bombs for the government.
Marlee glanced at Eli with the question in her eyes, What do you want me to say? These were his friends. She wasn’t going to fuck anything up for him.
He’d do that all on his own. “She’s my wife.”
Marlee’s eyes went all soft, like she was eating his lemon meringue and it was the perfect balance of tart and air and crème. Yes, he’d used the word wife and hadn’t had a stroke. It’s not like he’d used the m-word.
“Fucking hell, I lost the motherfucking g
oddamned bet,” Brek said under his breath, low enough his wife probably couldn’t hear.
“You got married?” Jase choked on whatever he was chewing. Heather pounded on his back.
“We did.” Marlee stared at the artistic pigeon print over the fireplace, her forehead scrunched together.
“When did you get married?” Jase asked on a wheeze.
That’s when he saw it. Marlee got her groove back. She smiled that smile that could drop a man to his knees begging for her touch. “I think we’re going to need hard alcohol for this story.” She glanced at Eli and winked. “Actually, I think that’s what got us into this mess.”
“Can we start over?” Dean’s wife, Claire, asked. “I’m Claire. This is my husband, Dean. Brek. Velma. Heather. Jase. And you’re Marlee. And you got married to Eli?”
The way Claire said it was like it was just part of the introductions.
“Oh, he doesn’t like that word,” Marlee said quickly. “The m-word.”
Actually, he’d been doing much better with it lately. Not the concept, but the word didn’t elicit cold sweats anymore.
“Married?” Velma asked.
“Shhh.” Marlee shook her head. “It makes Eli twitchy.”
“I’m fine.” Eli took a pull of his beer. “You can say it.”
“Can you say it?” Marlee asked, the dare as clear as the sparkle in her eyes.
“I don’t need to say it. It happened. We’re here. There’s nothing to say.” And that’s all he had to say about that.
“He can’t say it.” Marlee shrugged toward Velma.
He strode toward her. “Mar, I can totally say it.”
“Then say it,” she said all sing-song like.
She stared up at him. Her chin tilted to the side.
He held her eyes. No one said anything. And it really didn’t matter. They were in a room full of his friends, but it was only him and Marlee.
“Married.” He ground his incisors together. “See, I can say it.”
Her face did the soft thing that went straight to his gut. “I knew you had it in you.”
She leaned forward, and swear to fuck, he thought she was going to kiss him. His lips parted like they were ready for whatever she wanted to plant on them. And he would’ve liked it. Fuck it all, he would’ve liked it. Instead, she patted his cheek and smiled that dreamy smile of hers.
Take It Off the Menu: A sizzling, accidentally married rom com! (Mile High Matched, Book 3) (A Mile High Matched Novel) Page 10
