by Wendy Owens
“I see what you mean. She’s gorgeous,” the man says, smiling at me as he shakes my hand.
“Why thank you,” I reply with a tight-lipped grin and a glance at Christian.
“Well, I’ll let you two get to it. Just lock up when you’re done,” Tito says, handing a cluster of keys to Christian. He turns and exits the building without another word. I’m even more perplexed than before.
“All right, what’s going on?” I question, the suspense insufferable.
“Since I can tell it’s killing you, I’ll tell you. I’m going to make you dinner,” he answers, turning and walking into the kitchen.
“What?” I gasp. “You can’t cook.”
“Actually,” he begins, pulling out a large cast iron skillet from under the counter and placing it on top. “I know how to cook quite well.”
“What in the hell is with Texas? Emmie can cook now, and you, too?” I laugh in disbelief.
“I learned before I came to Texas. If you want to stick around as a roadie, you better make yourself useful, and that means learning how to cook. I had a great teacher, though. Mac.”
“Did you just say Mac? What kind of name is Mac?” I ask, amused.
Christian looks at me disapprovingly; he is obviously sensitive about whoever this Mac character is.
“Sorry, was he like the old wise and elderly roadie who taught you the ropes?”
“No,” he replies, pulling out a tray that is overflowing with veggies. “Mac is short for Mackenzie.”
“Oh.” I gulp. That isn’t the response I’d expected. “Was she your girlfriend?” I ask, not sure I want to head down this path.
I see him smile; I want to kick myself for giving him the satisfaction. I tell myself I’m not jealous, no matter what he thinks.
“I think she wanted to be.”
I think about his reply, slightly disgusted by it. “Too ugly for you? I can only imagine what a roadie chick looks like,” I joke, trying to help him understand how shallow he sounds.
He shakes his head, not looking at me, as he continues to prepare the ingredients for what he’s about to make. “No, she was actually quite beautiful.”
I think about this for a moment. Perhaps I misunderstand the implication, “Oh—I see—so she was just a booty call, then?”
“Jesus, you don’t think very much of me, do you?”
“Well, you did admit to being with a lot of women.”
“First of all, I don’t think I ever used the term, ‘a lot.’ And second, Mac was a friend. I didn’t want to do that to her,” Christian explains.
“Do what?” I ask, confused.
“Really? You’re going to make me say it?”
I squint my eyes, still unaware of what he’s saying.
“Fine,” he continues. “I was still hung up on you. I knew Mac and I would never work out, and since we were friends, I didn’t want to put her through that. As long as I was still in love with you, I could never feel the same way she did.”
“Wow, that’s awfully noble of you,” I say sarcastically, trying to diffuse the intensity of his statement.
“It worked out,” he continues, ignoring my quip. “She ended up with some singer. I think his name is Jett.”
“Mac and Jett, you can’t be serious?”
“Yeah, apparently his mom was some huge Joan Jett fan. Actually their story is pretty amazing, but I’ll save that for some other time,” he teases.
I look at him; it is clear there’s a lot about him that has changed. A lot I didn’t know. There is an entire other life we’ve lived since we’ve been apart. I know I’m in love with Henry, and Christian will never be able to change that, no matter how many pseudo dates we go on. But even knowing that, part of me is glad I’ve agreed to this little arrangement. Once Christian realizes there isn’t any hope for us, maybe there’s a chance we can be friends again; and for that reason, I’m looking forward to getting to know him better.
“I have a feeling you have a lot of stories like the one with Mac and Jett,” I comment, watching him as he scoops up the chopped veggies and places them in the cast iron skillet.
“Oh, please—I wasn’t the one jetting around Europe for the past four years. How many Dukes or Princes did you get to propose?”
“There were a few.”
“I’m sure.” He smiles at me. I do love his smile. That was something that would always cheer up my day when we used to live in New York—so long ago now.
“Please, you know I’m kidding, right? I didn’t have time to get serious with anyone.”
“Except Henry.”
“Yeah, I told you, we met on the flight back to the States,” I remind him. Suddenly there’s a tension in the room. Henry is probably the last thing we should be talking about. It only makes me think about how angry he will be that I agreed to such an idiotic proposal in the first place.
“So what are you making me?” I inquire, completely clueless.
“Don’t you want it to be a surprise?”
“Oh God, no! No more surprises. Please, tell me.”
“If you insist.”
“I do, I’m starving,” I say, clutching my stomach, as if it were wildly growling.
“No worries. Once these are all in the oven, I prepped some salads for us,” he informs me proudly.
“Oh my, you are certainly well-prepared.”
“What can I say? I’m a man who knows what he wants and will do whatever it takes to get it done.”
“All righty—that sounded creepy,” I joke.
“Agreed, sorry. I know you’re not a huge meat fan, so I prepared a vegetarian-based feast. This is a twist on shepherd’s pie.”
“With mushrooms?” I ask inquisitively.
“Yup, with an Italian flare. It has a marinara base, which, by the way, I also made myself ahead of time. There is also some roasted eggplant, sautéed mushrooms, and then a cheesy polenta on top.” As he explains the dish, I feel my mouth begin to water.
“Mmm …” I moan. “That sounds amazing.”
“I’m not done, my lady. In the warming oven, as we speak, are cheese stuffed poblano chiles that have been roasted and battered, then deep fried for a little crispiness. When you have an entire kitchen like this at your disposal, you can get very creative.”
“You’re going to have to tell me sometime what dirt you have on Tito to get the keys to this place for the night,” I say with a huge grin.
His expression shifts into a serious one. “Never.”
I laugh. “And what’s for dessert?” As soon as the words slip out of my mouth I realize they came out in a way that can easily be construed as dirty. My eyes dart to his, and I smile. I can see it on his face—he heard the accidental inflection, but he wasn’t about to take the bait.
Christian licks his lips before continuing, “How about we leave dessert a surprise?”
I nod. “I can handle one surprise, I suppose.”
“Oh— you suppose?”
“Yes,” I confirm with as much attitude as possible. Even if I know there is no hope for Christian’s plan to win my heart back, it is nice being able to spend a few nights together, just enjoying each other’s company the way we once did. God, we used to laugh so much. There were times I’d wake up with my sides sore because of how hard I’d laughed the night before.
He is a perfect gentleman all through dinner. He is true to his word, and there is no inappropriate physical contact between us during our, as he insisted on calling it, ‘date.’ As long as this is how things remain, I see no need to bother with telling Henry about Christian’s antics. We’ll go on the next two dates, and this silliness will be behind us.
I push myself away from the table, patting my stomach. “Wow, I’m stuffed.” I then release a small belch, leaning my head to one side.
“Just as classy as ever, I see,” Christian taunts.
“Hey, when you got it, you got it. What can I say?”
“So true,” he says, glancing over his shoulder
. “Ready for that surprise dessert?”
I groan, “Oh my God, I can’t fit another bite.”
“Not even if it’s your favorite?”
I pause, investigating his expression. He can’t possibly remember all these years later, can he? “No way,” I say dismissively.
He walks into the kitchen and returns with a covered dish. I watch in disbelief as he reveals the most divine looking German chocolate cake.
“Shut up!” I exclaim.
“From scratch, just for my Paige,” he boasts, placing the enormous cake in front of me. “Oh, I forgot a knife, I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t bother,” I call after him, picking up my fork and proceeding to cut off the most massive hunk the utensil can hold before shoveling it into my mouth.
Christian busts out laughing at my display. With crumbs spraying out wildly, I defend myself, “It’s German chocolate cake, which means it’s not my fault.” Of course he can’t understand a word I say. He walks back over to the table, and I scoop off another bite, feeding him a taste. I don’t even think about it. I should have, but I didn’t.
He takes hold of my hand, guiding it in, as it nears his mouth. There’s an electricity between us as our skin touches. Damn it, Paige, no physical contact, and this one is your fault.
I drop the fork and back away. I know he can see the horror in my eyes. The regret. Even our hands touching is more than I am okay with.
“I better go,” I say. “It’s getting late.
“Paige, it was just some cake,” he pleads.
“No— it was fun. It was a fun night. Thank you. I’m just tired, and I have a full day tomorrow.”
“Please, I’ll walk you back. I just need to lock up real quick.”
“Don’t be silly. You made dinner. I think I can walk a few doors down on my own.” I don’t wait for him to reply, but rather, I race out the front door as fast as I can, heading straight in the direction of the gallery and a safe, Christian-free place. The entire evening had been perfect. The food was delicious. He made me laugh, he shared stories, he listened, and then I had to go and screw it up at the end.
I tiptoe up the stairs, careful so Colin and Emmie don’t hear me. It’s not extremely late, but I know if Emmie finds out I am back, she’ll want to ask me a million questions. I know this because I was the same way when she and Colin started dating.
I flop down on my bed, lying there for a moment, just staring up at the ceiling. My phone vibrates. Three missed calls from Henry. He’ll have to wait until morning. I close my eyes for a second, and suddenly sleep envelops me.
Chapter Eighteen
THE SUN POKES itself into my room. I reach out my arms, enjoying my morning stretch and yawn to the fullest, feeling my spine crack as I do. Immediately, I lean over and grab my phone, flipping through my music options. “Moth’s Wings” by Passion Pit catches my eye, and I hit play.
As I hop to my feet, my hips and hair swaying to the music, an image of a bad eighties movie flashes through my mind, and I can’t help but smile. In this moment I don’t really care if I look absolutely ridiculous. I’m not a morning person, but on this particular morning, I’ve awoken feeling absolutely amazing, and I’m not about to squander it.
There is a knock at the door, but I don’t notice, surrounded by the music and the moment. “Work it, girl!” I hear Emmie’s voice behind me.
Panting, I turn and see her smiling back at me, leaning against the frame of the door, watching my every move. I bend in half at the waist, laughing, and attempt to hide my face.
“Oh no—please don’t stop on my account,” she insists.
“Shut up,” I growl, collapsing onto the bed, snickering.
“I came up because I thought something must be wrong,” Emmie continues, standing upright and moving directly across from me.
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“You know it’s Saturday, right?”
“And?”
“You don’t wake before noon on Saturday, let alone start your mornings off dancing,” Emmie teases.
“Maybe I’m becoming a morning person.”
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Somehow I doubt that. Does this mean your date with Christian went well last night?”
“It wasn’t a date,” I correct her, avoiding the question.
“When everyone is calling it a date except for you, it doesn’t make it any less of a date.”
“Whatever,” I add dismissively, grabbing my phone and flipping through the music choices. “Bruises” by Chairlift is my next selection. I press the genius playlist option, and then return the phone to the speaker dock on the nightstand.
“Well?” Emmie pushes. She clearly isn’t going to let this rest until she gets all the details.
“Since when does Christian cook?” I inquire, thinking back on the evening.
“He’s good, isn’t he?”
“Not bad.”
“How was the German chocolate cake?” she asks.
I look at her, narrowing my glare. “How did you know?”
“Really? I knew what he was planning days before you did.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“And suffer the wrath of Colin and Christian? No way, you’re on your own with this one, girl,” Emmie replies, collapsing on the bed next to me.
I prop myself up and look into her eyes, watching for any sign she might be hiding something else from me. “What does he have planned for date number two?”
She grins. “I thought they weren’t dates.”
“You know what I mean,” I huff, falling back.
“Actually—I have no idea what he has planned for your next date.”
I groan, frustrated with the entire situation. Even if he somehow manages to get me to concede, I might still have some sort of feelings for him, it doesn’t change how I feel about Henry. Christian and I lost our shot at a happily ever after.
“You really have no intention of telling me how it went last night, do you?”
“It went fine,” I offer.
“I’ll take that as you had wild and crazy sex and that you ate cake off each other’s naked bodies.”
“If you had balls, I’d kick you in them.”
Emmie laughs. “Then tell me, or I’ll have to let my imagination loose on the evening.”
“Jesus, you’re relentless.”
She grins confidently, grabbing a pillow, and wrapping her arms tightly around it. “Yup, but that’s one of the many reasons you love me.”
I prop my back up against the small headboard, the metal frame digging into my shoulder blade. Shifting, moving another pillow into place behind me, I debrief my friend of the evening’s details. I tell her about the conversations that were had, the delicious meal he prepared for me, and then the way I ruined everything.
She stares at me, contemplating the details. I wish she’d say something, anything. “Well?” I prod.
“So he didn’t kiss you or violate your rule in any way?” she clarifies.
“No, he was a perfect gentleman.”
“And you freaked out because his hand touched yours?” she continues, a disbelief in her voice.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. Why?”
“I’m just trying to figure out who in the hell you are?”
“What the hell?”
She shakes her head, and then locking eyes with me, explains, “You’re the girl who always does whatever she wants, no matter the consequences. You freaking graze his hand and you flip out? You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“I am not afraid!”
“No, it … it makes sense now,” she stammers, connecting the thoughts in her head. “You know you still love him, and that’s why you’re afraid. Jesus, how didn’t I see it before?”
“You need to stop, I’m serious. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I warn.
She reaches out and scoops my hands into hers, squeezing tightly. “You helped me when I was afraid.”
I pull away, standing and turning away from her. “I’m not kidding. You need to stop it!”
“Don’t be pissed, I’m just telling you what I see,” Emmie says defensively, shifting uneasily on the bed.
“These dates were a mistake,” I say, beginning to pace.
“Probably,” she agrees.
“What do I do?” I ask, hoping she actually does have answers that might help, because in this moment, I’m absolutely clueless.
“How do you feel about him?”
“Who?”
“Christian.”
“I don’t know …” I reply honestly.
“Then I think you need to start with figuring that out,” she recommends.
I finally stop my pacing and sit down on the edge of the bed. I don’t look at her when I ask. I’m afraid of what else she might see. “Do you think it’s possible to be in love with more than one person at the same time?”
She’s quiet at first, considering my question thoughtfully. “I think a person can love more than once in his or her life. I don’t think your heart can be divided equally between two people at the same time, though. There is always one you’d rather be with, one you think about when you’re away from them, one who makes life its best when they’re with you.”
I look at her. “I think that’s Henry.”
“You need to know it’s him,” she urges. She opens her arms, and I fall onto her shoulder, letting her warmth wrap around me. Sighing deeply, I know she’s right, but I just don’t know how to be sure.
“Have you talked to Henry lately?” she asks me.
I don’t move, content in my friend’s embrace. “Yeah, I think he can sense something.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He seems standoffish. Honestly, it’s been weird between us since he went home,” I explain.
“Why do you think that is?” she asks.
“I wish I knew. I keep thinking I should just get on a plane and head back home.” She’s quiet, and I’m surprised my revelation didn’t provoke a reaction. “Is that what you think I should do? Fly home?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” she questions.
I sit up and turn to look at her. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want you to answer.”
