Hungry for More (2012)

by Chelsea Scott

  As soon as Tad was put to bed, Bridget fixed dinner for herself. She planned to have some salad (Paul left a bowl for her on the second shelf) and some plain chicken…and maybe a fat-free pudding for being good, but Tad didn’t finish the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets that she had fixed for him and she didn’t want to throw them away. She polished them off, and then had a handful of chips. After all that junk food, she decided that it wouldn’t hurt to have a cookie or two…or five…or twelve.

  She had a problem. Bridget’s eyes were watering as she carried the empty packet to the trash and then hid it in the bottom where Paul would never see.

  Paul…Paul…

  She felt a twist of agony when she imagined what he would think of her if he saw her eating like this- about what he probably did think already! She had been such a fool to snub his meal! She had only been with him for a few days, but it was painfully obvious how important that his cooking was to Paul.

  It was only going to get worse…

  Bridget felt that she ought to have known that living with a chef was going to be torture. She could suddenly see the future laid out ahead: day after day of lies and excuses and worry. Perhaps she’d do better to go ahead and tell him flat out: she didn’t eat in front of other people.

  That sounds ridiculous, she thought and cringed at the idea. Then she closed her eyes and remembered Paul’s stricken face when she turned away his shark.

  How could he possibly think that she simply didn’t want his food? She’d have to be out of her mind!

  You are out of your mind, she scolded, if you think that this is ever going to work.

  She had to tell him. If she couldn’t work up the courage to tell him flat out, then at least she had to think up a good story. Perhaps she could say that she knew that it was silly, but she’d always been afraid of trying shark. Of course- that wouldn’t help her when this came up in the future.

  Bridget paced around the living room, trying to work out what to do, but she didn’t come up with any definitive answers. She didn’t come up with any ideas except telling the truth.

  Bridget couldn’t settle. The more that she thought about her problem, the more ridiculous she felt. She wished that she had some chocolate. Chocolate always made her feel better, but Paul would be home soon. She didn’t want him to catch her mid-binge and so she decided to try a glass of wine.

  There weren’t any bottles on the second shelf, but Paul had poured her a glass of Chardonnay for lunch on the day of the Croque-monsieurs. It was still corked and sitting in the refrigerator. Since it was already opened, and had already been offered to her before, she didn’t think that it would do any harm for her to have a little bit more.

  She poured a glass.

  It was really good, despite spending a few days in the fridge. It was not as smooth as the spicy, apple-flavored Shiraz that she had been offered at the restaurant that day. It had a crisp, refreshing bite with a hint of lemon. She was hardly an expert on wine, but Bridget was pleased to be able to pick out the flavors and to feel them changing as they warmed on her tongue.

  She concentrated on the alcohol (which was much more comforting than letting her mind return to its previous pursuits!) and savored every drop. She was surprised when she reached the bottom of the glass.

  Just one more, she told herself. Paul was going to be home soon, and they had to talk.

  Her gulps became deeper as her anxiety grew, but her inhibitions were blunted. She didn’t even argue with herself before topping off again.

  What was she going to tell Paul? She wondered. She started to lose track of her thoughts.

  She spilled a little bit of amber liquid on the counter as she filled her glass for a fourth time. The wine was really very nice. She wondered where Paul had bought it. She looked at the label. It was French, of course. She wondered if his cooking technique was French. She had never liked France. Her ex-fiancé Richard, had loved it. He wanted to take her on honeymoon to Paris, but she told him that was so cliché…

  “Hello?”

  Bridget gasped as the lights in the kitchen were snapped on.

  She blinked in the sudden light, surprised to find Paul standing in the doorway, looking at her with a puzzled frown.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted when he didn’t speak.

  “I live here!” he retorted, his voice still cool and distant. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” she told him, worried that she had slurred the words just a little. Surely not? She hadn’t drunk that much.

  “Having a nightcap?” Paul asked, inclining his chin toward the bottle.

  She nodded, “Would you like a glass?”

  “Sure,” he answered.

  “Tough night?” Bridget asked as she reached for another wineglass. She cringed when she realized that the bottle that she’d been drinking from was completely empty.

  “I’ve had better,” Paul responded, putting his head down onto the table. Bridget was glad that he couldn’t see her scrambling to open another bottle of wine. It was hard to do when the corkscrew was so slippery! The bottle seemed to wobble in her hands.”And…I guess I’ve had worse,” he admitted with a shrug.

  Bridget filled the wineglass and pushed it toward him.

  “Here you go,” she told him- and then surreptitiously poured a teensy bit more into her own glass.

  “Thanks,” Paul muttered, and then lifted the goblet. “Cheers,” he said glumly.

  Bridget copied his motion- and his mood. “Cheers.” She answered, and then stared at her hands as things between them fell silent.

  This was ridiculous.

  A wild burst of courage seized her. “I’m sorry about this morning!” she blurted.

  Paul’s brow furrowed. “This morning?”

  “Lunch.”

  “Ah…” So many other things had gone wrong since that morning that Paul had forgotten the fact that it was Bridget who set the whole day off. He was tired of being peevish about her snub. He didn’t want to go there again. “It doesn’t matter!”

  “It does! Mr. Devoe, I-!” she started to explain- but then stopped abruptly when he laid a finger against her lips.

  It was as though he had pressed a pause button. She froze completely, riveted on the feel of his skin.

  Why did he make her feel like this? Of course, some of the heat was bound to be attributable to the wine, but not the shiver, not the throb that settled down in her womb. Why was it happening? Why was she trying to resist? She couldn’t remember.

  “Paul…” She had never dared to use his given name before. Now it fled her lips in an unsteady whisper as she met his eyes. They were dark and brooding like nighttime and a stormy sky.

  He removed his finger. She forgot to breathe as he angled his lips toward her skin. She felt as if she were standing somewhere outside her body as he moved toward her. She was watching the whole thing in slow motion.

  He was going to kiss her!

  She thought she would expire of excitement, and then she felt his lips against her…cheek?

  “No!” she gasped when he began to pull away. Some wild impulse seized her. She threw her arms around his neck, dragging him back to her mouth. Then she was kissing him for real.

  It was the craziest, the stupidest, the most daring thing that she had ever done, and when she felt Paul start to kiss her back she added the most wonderful to her list.

  He kissed just like he cooked. The wine made Bridget want to giggle at the comparison, but she couldn’t deny that it was true. He was so intent about everything that he did. She remembered how he hadn’t even seemed to hear her speaking to him while he was standing over the stove. Now she had all of that fierce concentration focused solely on her! The thought alone made the butterflies in her stomach multiply exponentially.

  Thoughts were nothing compared to the tangible pressure of Paul’s lips pressing down on her mouth. He dabbed his tongue against her full bottom lip and sparks simmered under her skin. Bridget gas
ped and allowed him more intimate access to her mouth. He claimed her with the expert skill of a connoisseur.

  All the while Bridget couldn’t quite believe that she wasn’t dreaming. Paul Devoe was kissing her! A handsome, attractive man was kissing her! Really kissing her!

  He tasted of the alcohol that he’d just had to drink, but there was also a hint of rich dark chocolate on his breath. Bridget whimpered slightly and moved against him, brushing her hips against his.

  The undeniable evidence that Paul’s body could honestly want hers was a shock that penetrated Bridget’s slightly hazy mind. She gasped in surprise and bumped back into the counter that Paul had pressed her up against.

  What Paul interpreted as shock in Bridget was just enough to break the spell that she had cast over him. He steeled himself not to join their lips again. It took a mammoth act of will. She looked so beautiful and so enticing. She was flushed from his kisses. And from the wine, Paul reminded himself. He groaned and wondered if that was the only reason that she had been so receptive?

  “Paul…?” Bridget whispered uncertainly.

  Paul felt his resistance start to crumble. “Bed,” he said gruffly, trying not to notice the way her intake of breath lifted her breasts- breasts that had been crushed against his chest mere seconds earlier.

  He took Bridget by the hand (although even that small contact was a test of his resolve) and guided her down the hallway. He opened the door of her bedroom and nudged her inside. She turned and looked up at him, her eyes unfocused and confused.

  “Sleep tight,” he murmured and then bent down to kiss her forehead in a chaste fashion.

  She looked so disappointed that Paul almost lost his control. He wanted to follow her into her room and tumble her down onto her bed, but she was drunk- or tipsy at the very least-and he hadn’t sunk so low that he would take advantage of a woman in her state.

  He wanted to though.

  Chapter 8

  Bridget had the most wonderful dream. She couldn’t quite remember what it had been about, but it left her with a sleepy, happy smile on her lips as she slowly came awake. She continued to smile dreamily for about ten seconds. That was how long it took for her brain to remember what had happened the night before.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  She thought that she might actually be sick. Her stomach gave a violent heave. What had she done? She had made a fool out of herself, but far, far worse than that she had jeopardized her job and everything that she had worked for with Tad. That’s what she had done!

  She started to cry. What had ever induced her to kiss Paul Devoe? Well, the inducement was clear, but why, WHY, had she acted on it? What must he think of her? He thought that she was some kind of fat, drunk slut, probably!

  Bridget wanted to curl up and die. Even if Paul could find it in his heart to pity her stupidity rather than condemn her for it, he would be furious that she had been drinking when she should have been looking after Tad. She was furious with herself. What if something had happened? She couldn’t bear the thought.

  She was going to lose her job. Bridget sobbed into her pillow. After all the worry she had gone through when Phoebe died, and then the relief she had felt when Paul let her stay on as Tad’s nanny, she had messed everything up in a matter of days. She had blown her chance, and it was all because she was so freakishly abnormal that she couldn’t manage to eat a delicious meal in front of her employer.

  Ex-employer.

  Bridget wailed into her pillow. What was Tad going to do without her? What was she going to do without Tad? How in the world could Paul possibly cope alone? He would have to let her stay until he found someone new. She would grovel and beg if need be. Why had she been so stupid?

  She wasn’t going to accomplish anything hiding under the bedcovers. Bridget conceded that point with reluctance. Paul was hardly going to burst into her room and physically throw her out onto the street.

  If only because he wouldn’t be able to lift her, she thought miserably.

  She would have to get up and face whatever the day had in store for her. At least she would probably be spared the humiliation of seeing Paul first thing. She fully expected him to have left for work already, although she anticipated that a terse note, outlining her dismissal, would be waiting for her on the kitchen counter.

  To make matters even worse, Bridget’s head was pounding. She didn’t understand how she had drunk so much!

  She trudged into the bathroom and took a shower, feeling marginally more human when she was finished. At least she had stopped bursting into tears. Tad would still be fast sleep, or else he would have come around to wake her up, and so she took a moment selecting some clean, casual, comfy clothes, and dabbed on a spot of makeup in an attempt to conceal her puffy red eyes, before venturing out into the hall.

  Her knees went weak when she heard voices coming from the kitchen.

  “Oh God,” Bridget whispered, wringing her hands hopelessly.

  Paul must have stayed home from work just so he could fire her in person. She had seen him lose his temper numerous times over the few short days that she had known him. She fully anticipated being on the end of a real tirade in just a matter of moments. She was really very close to dashing back into her bedroom, but as luck would have it, Tad emerged from the kitchen and spotted her.

  “Nanny! You’re awake.”

  “Yes,” Bridget said lamely. “Have you, uhm- been making breakfast with your daddy?”

  Tad nodded. “I’m going to show him my shark! But he’s not allowed to cook this one,” he announced, and then hurried off into his room to fetch his new plush toy.

  Bridget thought about waiting for him to return so that she wouldn’t have to enter the kitchen alone, but Paul ruined that clever idea when he appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “How’s the head?”

  Bridget went as white as a sheet. “I- I’m so sorry, Mr. Devoe. I didn’t- I don’t normally drink. I honestly can’t apologize enough and I know that’s no excuse for what I did but I-”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Paul held up his hands in mock surrender. That was when Bridget noticed he wasn’t yelling. “It’s okay. We all have our off days.”

  “But I feel dreadful,” Bridget whispered. She still wanted to crawl under a rock and die when she thought about brazen she had been.

  “It’s just the hangover,” Paul winked. “It will wear off. Can I fix you some breakfast? You’d probably feel better with something in your stomach.” Bridget went green at the thought of food. Paul evidently noticed. “No? Well, have something to drink. You need to keep hydrated.”

  Bridget nodded meekly, convinced that she must have stepped into a parallel universe, and followed Paul into the kitchen.

  Eventually, the shoe was going to drop. Bridget kept reminding herself of that fact all morning. It was torture waiting for it to fall, but Paul honestly didn’t give any hint that he thought of the night before except for the tender concern he showed about her hangover.

  “A little quieter, Tad,” Paul said, ruffling the boy’s hair affectionately before making a shushing sign. “Nanny’s head doesn’t feel too good.”

  “Did she fall?” Tad asked, artlessly. “I was good and put Sir Spikespike away!”

  Bridget managed a tiny smile. “Not exactly,” she replied, and then met Paul’s eye.

  He actually smiled.

  She didn’t know what to think! She certainly didn’t trust the most obvious answer: that he honestly wasn’t mad. Even if he was going to give her a pass about the drinking, wasn’t he going to say something about the kiss?

  The answer, apparently, was “no.” Paul and Tad were both completely engrossed in cooking their purchases from the market. For once, Bridget’s failure to join in their meal didn’t stem from her own self-consciousness. She didn’t think they had prepared a single thing that she would eat even if she were alone.

  “Nanny! I ate a snail!” Tad cried, delighted by the experience. “Now it’s Daddy’s turn. You eat on
e! Eat it Daddy!”

  “I’ll have two.”

  “Ewwww!” Tad clapped his approval as Paul slurped the escargot down in a single gulp.

  “Now you have to try the eel.”

  Bridget was certain that she was going to spend the afternoon cleaning up seafood vomit. That was her punishment, perhaps. For the time being father and son appeared to be having the time of their lives. She couldn’t help but smile. Phoebe was a monster to keep them apart! They went together like strawberries and cream. From an outsider’s perspective, Bridget could tell that curiosity was a trait they shared. Paul seemed almost as excited as Tad did to experiment with their haul.

  They had come so far in such a short time. It seemed impossible to imagine that she and Tad had been here for only a week. Paul still didn’t trust his instincts for dealing with his son. Even now, in the kitchen, he kept glancing at Bridget seeking approval for the things that he said and did, but she knew that wouldn’t last long. That was a bittersweet realization. Pretty soon, Tad wouldn’t need her anymore.

  Paul didn’t go into the restaurant until after lunchtime- a fact Bridget couldn’t help but remark upon.

  “I’m not complaining!” she assured him, “I’m just surprised. It was such a nice treat for you to stay home with Tad today.”

  “I liked staying home with you guys.”

  Guys, plural, Bridget thought giddily. She was definitely included- although she wouldn’t dare to guess what that might mean. She didn’t have long to contemplate it anyway. Paul paused on his way out the door. “Be a good boy!” he told Tad, then gave him a tight squeeze that lifted him off the ground. “You too,” he said to Bridget, teasing her with a wink. Then, just before he turned to go, he dabbed a little kiss on her cheek.

  Good plan, or bad plan? He really should have stuck around to see.

  Paul stared at the white restaurant kitchen wall, trying to remember the expression on Bridget’s face when he had dared to kiss her again. The action had been intentionally understated. It was easy to explain away. He was just being “nice.” If she had objected, he could have simply laughed. If she had kissed him back…