by Dana Volney
“Nailed it,” she sang and smiled proudly at him.
He forgot why he was standing there. A hint of mischievousness played in her eyes as he studied her sleek, creamy face that hinted at freckles, bangs cut to her eyebrows, thick hair that fell mid-chest, high cheekbones, slender lips, and a slightly pointed nose. A need pulled at him in the deep recesses of his mind, but he refused it. He glanced down at the food in his hands.
Oh, right.
“Third question,” she continued. “What do you do for fun? I mean, besides cooking. Which, clearly, you love.”
He handed her a plate and set his on the matching loveseat while he assembled two TV trays. There was a chance to make this situation better—he could get some feedback on his food.
“You’re scaring me a little,” he said over his shoulder as he retrieved utensils. “You’ll have to share your secrets with me.”
“Those are reserved for a very few.” Her voice lost its cheer, and she stared at her plate, the playfulness gone in her body language. “I didn’t mean … ”
Get back on track, back to the questions.
“I know.”
A sweet smile crossed her pink lips, but it was short-lived.
“Fun, hmm … and you nixed cooking. Sleeping? Does that count? I don’t get enough of it. It’s a luxury.”
She slipped a fork full of risotto into her mouth—the best part of being a chef was watching people enjoy his creations. This meal wasn’t his best, thanks to the sudden lack of power, but Sophie wouldn’t be sitting in his apartment asking him ridiculous questions, like she cared, if his meal had turned out perfectly. The give and take of life struck again.
“What do you think?” he asked, but he already knew the answer—the edges of her mouth turned up and the happiness in her eyes clearly said she loved it.
“Tasty, but it’s a little … hmm … the same as I’ve had somewhere else.” She shrugged and took another bite.
Tasty? The same? This was his family’s recipe. It was the best. What the hell? He watched her enjoy the next bite, too.
He stabbed a beef medallion and part of an asparagus. “Would’ve been better with the sauce. That’s what I was experimenting with.”
“I may actually catch up on sleep this week. I think, as an adult, sleep is always a luxury. You’re not off the hook, by the way.” She pointed her fork at him before choosing a medallion off her plate.
“I like to fish for fun. When I have the time. What exactly don’t you like about the meal?” Is she screwing with me?
“Have you been able to go fishing since you moved here?” she asked.
“No. I don’t ice-fish. It thaws around here in April, right?”
“Sometimes. There’s great fishing on the Platte River, though. That starts earlier than the lakes, I believe.” She glanced down at her plate. “It’s a good meal, don’t get me wrong. Thank you for sharing. Just no wow factor, if that’s what you were going for.”
“Wow factor?” Seriously? His food was very full of wow.
“Yeah, like, I don’t know if I’d crave it in the middle of the night.”
“And what do you usually crave in the middle of the night?” The question left his mouth before the innuendo registered in his mind.
She blinked, and a flirty smiled appeared and stayed as she glanced up and down his body. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He could practically feel the color red tinge his cheeks. She sure had a way of detouring the subject, and he didn’t want to keep asking about his food since he evidently wasn’t going to get a precise answer. What where they talking about before? He cleared his throat. “Do you fish?” Great, now he was sucked into question-land.
“I grew up fishing. On my dad’s days off we’d go out early in the morning.” She paused. “Like, before-the-sun-is-up-so-we-can-get-the-best-spot-on-the-lake early.”
“You’ll have to tell me that spot.”
She shrugged one shoulder and pushed around the risotto. “That was a long time ago.”
He picked up on the sore subject. Life could suck. Didn’t he know it. That’s why he’d come up with his plan—and not even Sophie could deter.
He lightly cleared his throat, hoping his innocent questions hadn’t ruined their night. “That was three questions. So, where am I from?” This should be good.
Candlelight shadowed the walls behind her and shaded half of her beautiful face. He wished they were sitting on his big couch together. Then he could really see what she was thinking.
“Tacoma, Washington.”
She spoke so confidently, he’d swear he’d told her. There was no question in her voice, and she was correct. Tacoma had been his home for thirty-one years, and then he’d made a conscious decision to leave and never return.
“Wrong,” he said.
“Liar,” she instantly retorted and raised her brows.
“I do not buy for one second that those questions helped you guess Tacoma.”
“I’m psychic?”
“Try again.” He swayed his head, and the sides of his eyes crinkled.
Marc couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed getting to know someone. Wait. He didn’t know much about Sophie—certainly not as much as she’d been able to get out of him in the span of fifteen minutes. He’d only invited her in because he felt bad he had all this food and she was clearly hungry—he wasn’t supposed to actually like her company and she wasn’t supposed to lie about not liking his food. Her entire plate of food was nearly gone. Yup, she’d definitely been needling him for a rise.
Her brown eyes sparkled in the dimness of his apartment. “If you don’t want people to know you, you should probably set your Facebook profile to private.” A phone appeared in her hand, and she waggled it, obviously pleased with her sleuthing skills.
Facebook? He’d forgotten about the profile he didn’t keep up with anymore. In his haste to leave town to pursue the life he’d only dreamed about, he’d failed to keep up with what had been routine in his past. Smart woman. “I never said I didn’t want people to know me.”
“Then how come you’ve lived in this building for three months and never said hello?” Her phone screen went black, and she pushed the buttons on the side. “Shoot.”
Because you’re extremely good-looking, and I knew the smallest encounter would suck me into your obviously chaotic world. He stared at her, unable to come up with an excuse on the fly. His past—Felicia leaving him—no longer controlled his future. So why did he sense that the path he’d laid out for his future was about to change?
CHAPTER TWO
“I like to keep to myself,” he said as he ran a hand through his blond hair.
“You seem pretty friendly to me.” She finished the last of her meal and laid her utensils across her plate. Marc’s cooking was amazing. She almost felt bad for not telling him just how much of his risotto she would eat in the wee hours of the morning. Almost.
“They aren’t mutually exclusive.”
The darkness cradled Sophie and gave her license to be bold, even brazen, in her conversation with Marc. Her multiple questions were a faint punishment for him not acknowledging her in the hallway for the past three months. She’d have had to be blind to miss his shock when she’d guessed his hometown, and it was all she could do not to laugh at his squirming.
What perplexed her now was why an evidently determined man like Marc didn’t care to be known or let people into his life. Who moved and didn’t care if he kept in touch with anyone or make new friends? Where was his family? Focusing on a career wasn’t a bad thing at all—ambition was admirable—but to close out an entire section of life was insane, especially if that area was always the most thrilling.
What kind of mystery are you, Marc?
She could feel his intense blue eyes as they traveled up her arm and to her mouth, where they lingered before he met her gaze. If the food had put her into a lull, his gorgeous stare woke her right up, and the adrenaline rejuvenated her spirits. M
aybe she didn’t have to cut out all hope of a future love life after all. Not with Marc, of course, he was too uptight, but she could stop dismissing potential dates just on principle from now on.
“Hmm. What do you do for a living? You don’t look like you sit in an office all day.” Or skip the gym.
“I think it’s time I get to ask you questions.”
“Okay. What do ya want to know? I’m an open book.”
Not the truth, but what did he know? She’d smile pretty and answer like she always had—telling about her fantastic childhood, loving family, and how performing onstage made her feel alive. What she wouldn’t share was the horrific tragedy of losing her parents, her commitment issues for fear of losing another person, and that some days being alone in this world was too much to handle. Those were the days she couldn’t get out of bed.
“What do you do for a living?” He sat back in the couch with ease, his white shirt clinging to his sculpted body.
She purposely took a moment to appreciate the hardness of his chest. Is it smooth? Then he moved his arm to take a drink, and she noticed the strength in his lean bicep. Before she met his eyes again, she took a deep breath filled with longing.
“I work full time as a florist at Kiss from a Rose with my best friend, and I’m the lead singer and guitarist for Orange Heart. We mainly cover eighties songs, but sometimes I write an original.”
“Anything I would know?”
She laughed at his serious tone. “Probably not.” If a complete stranger knew her songs, she’d faint. As it were, sales weren’t exactly skyrocketing.
“I’ll have to check them out.” He moved his tray to the side.
“Please do.” She turned to her left to see him better and pulled her legs up so she could rest her chin on her knees.
The silence stretched but was not static—she could feel the nothingness flow between them as if they were attached to the same wire with electricity passing between them. She’d known Marc for less time than it would take her to walk down to the street and two blocks west to buy new guitar strings. Still, she felt like she’d known the man sitting three feet away from her for years. This must be what instant friendship is like.
“Was that the burning question that’s been on your mind about me?” She reached behind her, found her jacket, and slipped it on over her dark-green t-shirt. I hope the power comes back on soon. Marc’s strong arms and hands rested easily on his thighs as he ignored her question. Or maybe not.
He was nice and sexy and mysterious in a good-boy sort of way. Maybe they could be neighbors with benefits. She was figuring out how her fantasy scenario would work when his soothing, rich voice broke into her thoughts.
“If you could relive any moment in time again and again, whenever you wanted, what would it be?”
We’re getting right into the hard questions, aren’t we? To be fair, she’d started it. “Define moment.”
“A scene in time, could be five minutes or an hour.”
That was easy. She was sitting down to dinner with her family at age fourteen. Spaghetti was hot on the table along with French bread that had been buttered, sprinkled with ranch seasoning, and heated. There was nothing uniquely special about the moment—she couldn’t even remember the conversation. Her life though, during that dinner, had been complete. Less than a year later nothing from that moment survived. Not the feeling of contentment. Not the homemade food. Not the love.
“I would relive the first time … ” A tear escaped her right eye, and she brushed it away, hoping somehow he hadn’t noticed. Unexpectedly, and rather impulsively, stories she hadn’t shared with anyone, ever, were not so scary to talk about in the flickering light. Her defenses softened. Telling Marc wouldn’t matter; this was probably the only time she’d ever have a conversation with him anyway. She cleared her throat, unsure of her voice. “A dinner with my parents,” she whispered.
He leaned forward. “Tell me.”
“Mom insisted on making dinner every weeknight. I helped.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “My favorite was spaghetti. Dad would come home from the restaurant, and we’d all eat together. Life was good.”
She risked a glance in his direction just as he raised his eyebrows and prompted her to continue.
“They died. Car accident.” The words were automatic but always stung. Usually she hid her reaction; tonight she didn’t even try. She sniffled and took a deep breath.
“Sorry to hear.” His voice was low and sincere.
Sophie appreciated the sentiment that usually followed that particular fact about her life. Marc’s tone, his face, and his entire body conveyed a heartfelt response. She closed her eyes. Not the time to cry.
When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, closely, and looked ready to hear more. But she wasn’t as ready to divulge her story, the one that sometimes didn’t feel real, as she’d initially thought. She’d shared enough. “Next question.”
His pause, the hesitation in the air, caught her breath.
“When did you first pick up a guitar?”
Her exhale was audible, but she didn’t care.
“I was about six, I think, when my mom put me in lessons.”
Music was a part of her very being. When she was really into the process, she felt the notes, could see their lyrics, and craved it in her soul. The world made more sense when put to music. It never got old. Normally songs came fairly easy to her, but she’d been in an epic slump lately—which is why Candace closing the flower shop was the perfect opportunity to reconnect to her muse. Or find a muse. Or put her butt in a dang chair and not leave until her writing mojo returned.
“Did you study music in school?” he asked, stopping her internal freak-out that she would never put a whole song together again.
“No. I wish. I have a general business degree.” She chuckled with no humor. The one time in her life she’d tried to be super practical. “I thought maybe that type of education would help me more in the long run. If I had to do it over, I would’ve applied for a music composition program, maybe minored in business.”
“You still could.”
“I’m learning from the school of reality now. Sometimes jumping in and experiencing is better.”
“Do you play any other instruments?”
“Nope, never had any interest other than the guitar and singing. My mom found me a teacher who specialized in both.”
“Smart woman. How long have you had your band?”
“Three years. This the best band I’ve ever been in.”
“I always wondered how that works. Do people jump from band to band, or do you meet people you feel the most creative with and become a band? Who names you?”
“I’ve done it both ways. College days it was whoever had an opening. With Orange Heart though, we all met in different ways, and it just sort of happened. Our name is because we have some serious heart”—she smiled—“and were really into orange pop at the time. Like, embarrassing amounts.”
He laughed. “So I’ve found your weakness.”
“Oh, geez, no, can’t touch the stuff. I drank enough for a lifetime, and now it seriously grosses me out.”
He stood and collected their plates.
“Do you want help?”
“Nah, I got it. I also have dessert.”
“Dinner was delicious. Thank you. And you made dessert? How are you still single?”
There was a micro-faltering in his posture, and his face tightened for only a second before he brushed off her comment. “Let me see if the power outage ruined it, too, before I get your hopes too high.”
He rifled around in the kitchen, but she couldn’t see what he was messing with. For the first time, she examined his apartment. The couch and love seat they’d been occupying formed a square with the TV and outer wall, which contained a window to the alley. A faint light shone through but didn’t add an abundance of light to his apartment. His bedroom door, a couple feet away from his front door, was behind the love seat. The layo
ut was the same as her apartment, only reversed. Nothing hung on the walls—no pictures of family or artwork he favored. There was a plain, brown square rug under a smaller coffee table between her and the TV and a couple of cooking magazines at the foot of the couch. Behind her, the kitchen looked like the most used room in his apartment, with oven mitts, a stand holding a cookbook, and pots on the stove.
A quick sideways glance at his bedroom door again made her wonder what was behind it. What that where he displayed his personal pictures? Would it be tidy or have clothes strewn about? Meanwhile, Marc was moving about the kitchen with a knowing that must have come from years of training.
“Are you a chef or something?” she asked.
He walked around the counter, holding two big, white bowls. “Yes.”
“Where at?”
“Heard of Sizzo’s?”
“Yes.” She’d eaten there a couple of times and finished everything on her plate, nearly licking it when she was done.
“That’s me.” He handed her a cold bowl. “Hope you like ice cream.”
It wasn’t every day someone served you two green, fist-size balls of ice cream. “Green?”
“Wasabi.” He pointed to the empty cushions on the couch next to her. “Do you mind?”
“No,” she said and scooted back so there was almost a full cushion between them before she twisted around, crossing her legs.
He sat with ease, all his muscles working in defined, sexy unison.
“Your restaurant is pretty cool. Is Sizzo your last name?” She kept the questions coming, not wanting to think about how attracted she was becoming to her neighbor, not wanting to acknowledge the personal bombshell she’d dropped, and hoping to avoid the intimacy the candlelight brought to their conversation.
“Yes, it is. I couldn’t think of anything else to name it.”
“It fits.”
“It’s more in honor of my dad than me. We used to cook together, and I just kept going with it I loved it so much.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you liked the place. Do you remember what you had?”
