All he could do was think about what Emery had just shared with him. Hearing the anguish in her voice had affected him deeply and angered him more and more.
And the thing was, there was a part of him that wasn’t sure why.
Was he upset because—for all intents and purposes—they were friends? And that he hated how something like this could happen to her and that it seemed like no one was around to support her?
Or…
And this was the one that really stung…
Was he upset because it all fell on him not to rock the boat? He couldn’t throw her out, he couldn’t ask her to leave. There was no way he could refuse to work with her, which meant she might have to come with him to Montauk.
To his retreat.
There weren’t enough ocean sounds to calm the tension that would undoubtedly course through him at being forced to spend so much time with her.
She would make him crazy.
She would annoy the hell out of him.
She would challenge every single thing he did.
In short, it was going to be everything he didn’t need right now.
Just then, Emery walked into the room. She had a smudge of chocolate on her cheek. Carter couldn’t help but laugh softly.
Or maybe it was just what he needed.
* * *
At this rate, she was going to get spoiled.
And it was only one meal.
One incredibly delicious meal served by one incredibly delicious man.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
Rather than think about it too deeply, Emery chalked it up to acknowledging something she’d always known—Carter Montgomery was too handsome for his own good.
With a quiet sigh of relief, she leaned back in her chair and said, “My compliments to the chef.” And she meant it. “That was wonderful, Carter. I certainly don’t expect you to cook for me, but I’m very thankful you did.” She let out a small laugh. “I had half a frozen pizza for dinner last night and had planned on eating the other half for lunch.”
He looked at her as if she was insane.
Come to think of it, that’s the way he’d been looking at her almost since he arrived at the condo less than twenty-four hours ago.
“You’re in one of the food capitals of the world and you ate frozen pizza?” he asked incredulously. “How…? I mean, why?” He shook his head. “Even if you didn’t want to go out, Emery, you could have found some place that delivered.”
She shrugged. “It’s really not a big deal.”
The look he gave her said he didn’t believe her.
“Really. I stocked up on the basics and…I’m good.”
Carter reached for his glass of water and stared at her for so long that she definitely started to squirm. “And what do you plan on doing for dinner?”
Dang. She was really hoping he was going to offer to cook again.
With a careless shrug, Emery reached for her own drink. “I don’t normally plan that far in advance. I guess since I didn’t finish the pizza for lunch, I’ll have it for dinner.”
He gave her a curt nod before he stood up and walked over to the refrigerator. Without a word he opened it, reached inside, and pulled out her foil-wrapped pizza.
And threw it in the trash.
“Hey!” Jumping to her feet, she stormed over to him. “What did you do that for? I wasn’t asking you to eat it!”
“It’s offensive.”
“Offensive? Seriously?”
“Yeah. Seriously. If you want pizza for dinner, we’ll go out and—”
“Oh no,” she said, quickly cutting him off. “Been there, done that today. I’m good.”
His shoulders sagged. “Emery, you can’t stay inside forever. This is a city of eight million people. It would be almost impossible for you to run into the same person twice in one day at two different locations.”
“You don’t know that.”
He sighed loudly. “Yes, I do. Come on, you need to get out. We’ll go and—”
“Look, Carter,” she began and hated how bitchy her tone was, “I get that you’re concerned or you feel sorry for me or…whatever. But the fact is I’m not your responsibility, okay? Just because I choose to stay in doesn’t mean you have to. If you want to go out to eat, you should. I’m not stopping you!”
And there it was again.
The look.
The glare.
Only this time, Emery wasn’t going to squirm or apologize or back down. Whether he wanted to believe her or not, she wasn’t up to going out and looking over her shoulder the entire time. In a word, she was spooked. This was the first time this week she’d seen anyone she knew, and while Carter was probably right—it would be almost impossible for her to run into the same guy again—she just wasn’t willing to chance it. It wasn’t worth it.
Not even for pizza.
“Good to know,” he said finally, walking back over to the table and clearing away the dishes.
Good manners prevailed and Emery stopped him, trying to take the plates from his hands. “Let me. You cooked, I clean. That’s the rule, right?” But Carter wouldn’t release the plates in his hand. She tugged a little harder, huffing with agitation. “Dammit, Carter!”
“There are no rules here, Em. There was no agreement for the meal. I don’t mind cleaning up. It’s not a big deal.”
“Well, it is to me, okay? So…just let me do this,” she said wearily. This time he released the plates and she simply said “Thanks” and cleared the table—and cleaned up the kitchen too. Although she had to hand it to him, he did a pretty good job of cleaning up after himself while he cooked. If she hadn’t been so distracted earlier, she would have loved to watch his process so she could start thinking about the book and how they could incorporate his habits into it.
Though they had yet to talk about it, she believed it would be best for them to do it sooner rather than later. Emery overheard him talking and figured he was on the phone. It gave her time to come up with a plan on how she could make a presentation to him and get him to hear her out without any snarky comments or push-backs.
A girl could dream, right?
Looking around, she was pleased with how neat and clean the kitchen and dining room looked, so she went in search of Carter. But he was in his room, the door was closed, and he was still talking.
“No biggie,” she murmured, going into her own room and getting out the files that she had been studying earlier, along with the notebook she had been using to jot down her ideas. Considering she hadn’t expected him to arrive so early—Eliza had mentioned him flying in on Monday—she had enough notes to make a basic presentation. If she’d had more time, she could have made a great PowerPoint presentation that would have blown him away.
Maybe she wouldn’t bring up the subject until tomorrow and spend the rest of the day working on putting something a little more impressive together. Maybe she could—
Carter’s door opened and he was still talking.
“No, it’s fine. I’m heading there now. Don’t worry about it,” he was saying. “It’s okay, I didn’t have anything else planned for today. This weekend was all about relaxing before heading out to Montauk.”
Montauk? Why was he going to Montauk? And for that matter, how long was he going to be there? How could Eliza expect her to work with Carter if he wasn’t going to be here?
Not wanting to disturb him, Emery hung back in her room until she heard him say goodbye, then she casually made her way to the living room. “Everything okay?” she asked.
“What?” he asked distractedly, turning toward her. “Oh, uh…yeah. I’m going to head out for a while. I need to meet up with one of my lawyers and sign some papers.”
“On a Saturday?”
For a moment he looked at her as if he didn’t understan
d her question. Then he relaxed. “Well, I don’t get to New York as often as I used to, so he sees me whenever I’m here.”
“That’s very nice of him.”
He nodded and they stood in awkward silence.
“Anyway,” he said, “I should go. I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Sounds good.” She was about to ask when he’d be back but remembered telling him to go out and do whatever he wanted without worrying about her. So…he was going out and it wasn’t any of her business when he’d be back.
When she finally got out of her own head, she saw him standing by the front door, keys in hand. Looking at her over his shoulder, Carter said, “There are a couple of fruit danishes in the box on the counter and there’s another brownie if you want it for dessert. Help yourself.”
And then he was gone.
The idea of any kind of baked good with fruit was beyond unappealing, but the brownie was a possibility.
Just not right now.
Then again, after her chocolate Pop-Tart for breakfast and her prelunch brownie, maybe she should save the darn thing for tomorrow.
Or at least wait until after dinner.
Or maybe she should utilize the gym here in the building to work off the first two treats, and then come back for the third. The treadmill was a great place to focus on her work and clear her mind of everything else.
With the perfect afternoon plans, Emery made quick work of changing into yoga pants, a tank top, and sneakers before grabbing her iPod, a bottle of water, and her keys. Feeling invigorated, she quickly made her way to the elevator and down to the gym.
The gym room was deserted, which was fine by her. The fewer people she came in contact with, the better. With her favorite playlist on and the speed of the treadmill just right, she settled in for a workout for both body and mind.
She immediately got warm and cursed herself for not being more faithful to a workout routine. Emery focused her mind instead on envisioning how she wanted Carter’s book to look. Going by the examples Eliza had given her and adding them to her own ideas, she envisioned something that looked more like a family gathering than a chef alone in a pretend studio. Perhaps she could convince the Montgomerys to set up for Christmas early this year and do a photo shoot at their family home upstate or at the condo.
Loving that idea, she made a mental note of her vision and kicked up her speed on the treadmill by another half mile per hour.
A little breathless, she imagined Eliza’s home decorated for the holidays, the whole family around the table enjoying a meal Carter had created—food that was special but not…ridiculous.
Seriously, she needed to get him to back off the gouda.
Eliza had said she wanted emotion—to engage readers with their senses, remind them of family traditions and how food plays into that. This seemed like a foreign concept to Emery—she and her family were never the type of people who had food traditions.
Ever.
Her mother never enjoyed cooking, and every holiday was a catered meal where someone else created the menu—even if no one enjoyed any of the selections.
Which was how she had developed her junk food habit. She hid snacks in her room because so many of the meals they had weren’t enjoyable.
While her parents loved the idea of being rich and fancy and having events catered by some of the best restaurants in the city, Emery would choose going to a diner for a big fat burger any day of the week. Or something as simple as meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Yeah, she was a comfort food kind of girl.
Looking straight ahead, Emery caught her reflection in the mirrored wall and studied herself. She was taller than a lot of women she knew and felt like she had zero curves. She’d kill for a few more curves and a few less inches in height. It was unrealistic, but somehow she’d always wished she was someone other than who she was.
There was a depressing thought.
All through school she’d had issues with her appearance. Chalk it up to the pressures of being a girl and how the female population was generally made to feel bad about the way they looked, but Emery felt it more than most. She didn’t get asked out like most of her friends, didn’t date a lot in high school or college. She had blamed it on being focused on her studies, but inside, she knew it was because of her looks.
And the depressing thoughts continued.
Thinking about school and the awkward teen years brought her thoughts right back to Carter. He never seemed to have one of those phases. He’d always been good-looking and confident, and if memory served, he’d been dating the cute girls since around the age of thirteen. She’d never admitted this to a single person but…she’d been jealous. Yeah, there’d been a time when she’d had a crush on him and knew it was pointless. Boys who looked like him never dated girls who looked like her. It was part of the reason they had the relationship they currently did. Emery had built a wall between them—being adversaries with him was easier than facing his indifference.
Some therapist would have a field day with her if she ever tried to explain that logic out loud.
But even if she did have to explain it, one look at Carter would be all it took. Tall with a lean, muscular build, dark hair that needed a good cut, gray eyes that seemed to see right through you, and the perpetual five o’clock shadow? Um, yeah. If the therapist was a female, all Emery would have to do was show a picture of Carter Montgomery and it would all make sense.
And it didn’t make Emery feel any better.
She picked up the speed until she was in a good jog—breathless and getting sweatier by the minute.
She was going to deserve that damn brownie by the time she was done.
And now that she thought about it, it would make the perfect dinner.
* * *
“What’s this?”
Carter looked up from the dough he was rolling out and grinned. Emery had clearly just emerged from the shower because her hair was wrapped up in a towel, turban-style, she didn’t have on an ounce of makeup, and was wearing a flannel robe.
A man’s flannel robe.
Seriously, did she not have a better wardrobe than this? After the shorts and T-shirt disaster earlier, he was really beginning to doubt it.
Putting his attention back on the task at hand, he said, “Pizza dough.”
“Pizza dough? Why?” she asked, stepping closer. He noted her curious expression.
“I was in the mood for homemade pizza,” he replied. He immediately knew she didn’t believe him.
“Really?” she asked sarcastically.
“Uh-huh. Really.”
“This from the man who earlier today told me about the wonders of being in one of the food capitals of the world, and you’re telling me you’d rather stay in and make your own pizza than go out for one. Do I have that right?”
He gave her one of his most dazzling smiles. “Nailed it in one.”
She huffed and moved closer, watching what he was doing. “Why would you want to make this much of a mess?” Then she looked around the kitchen. “And don’t you need some sort of stone oven or something for this to be good?”
He laughed softly. “Preferable, but not completely necessary. When my parents purchased this place when I was a kid, we never cooked. If we were in the city, we were eating out. About a half-dozen years ago, they did this major renovation on the place and I begged them to go big on the kitchen. My father said it was a frivolous waste of money since no one stayed here long enough to use it and—more specifically—I was selfish to ask such a thing.”
“Wow.”
He nodded in agreement. “Yup. That was my reaction too.” Then he shrugged. “Although to be fair, he had a point. No one stayed here for extended periods of time, and I’m the only one in the family who enjoys cooking, so…”
“Still,” she began, resting her hip against the granite,
“they all could have benefitted from it when you were here together. Plus I’m sure if you ever sold the place it would have only added value.”
“I thought that as well but kept it to myself. There wasn’t anything you could argue with where my father was concerned. Especially when it came to my career choice.”
Emery sat on one of the stools and watched him. “He didn’t approve of you being a chef?”
With a mirthless laugh, Carter said, “Hardly. It was either be in the finance business or nothing to him. We argued for years, and finally I put my foot down and told him it didn’t matter what he said or what he threatened with, it wasn’t going to happen. I’m not a suit-and-tie guy and I don’t want to sit in an office all day.”
“And what did he do?”
Carter reached for a rolling pin and began working on stretching the dough. “He disowned me for about a year—wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t allow my mother to have me home for the holidays… It was crazy.”
“So what changed? Did he ever come to appreciate your success and all you accomplished?”
“Eventually. But it wasn’t until my second restaurant opening. That’s when I started getting a bit of a following.” Another laugh. “I had been featured in several magazines and my restaurants were getting rave reviews. He figured if I was getting that much attention, I must be making money.”
Her brows furrowed. “Wow.”
He ducked his head. “I know.”
“Still, it must be nice to know he was proud of you.”
Instantly, he stopped rolling and gave her a hard look. “I never said proud, Em. He acknowledged my success, but it was always followed by a snarky comment like ‘Still, it’s not as secure as being in a real job.’” He shuddered as if hearing his father’s voice in his head. “The pressure to work harder and always be on top of my game has been exhausting. I can never relax and enjoy what I’ve accomplished because I have this fear it’s never going to be enough.”
He stopped and cursed himself.
A Dash of Christmas Page 5
