“Nope. Been cooking for hours.” He pulled me inside.
I was instantly assaulted by the divine smell of his too die for enchiladas. I’m not kidding; I almost started drooling, mouth filling with saliva, jaw going slack in anticipation.
“Oh God,” I said, giving him wide eyes. “I’d convinced myself that I had invented that smell in my mind, but it really exists.”
His smile was playful. “You’ve been missing out, boo. Feel free to use me for my cooking any time the mood strikes you.”
“Do I get the tour of the house before or after we eat?”
“After. Food’s ready now. And get this, homemade tortillas.”
I shut my eyes, like he was talking dirty to me.
He continued, “Pico and guacamole from scratch. And dessert is a surprise.”
The man was diabolical.
We ate in his formal dining room. It was a beautiful room, huge, with twenty-foot ceilings, and ultra-modern decor. One of Bianca’s spectacular paintings hung on the wall.
I could tell he’d gone to some trouble, with a centerpiece of fresh flowers and lit candles set throughout the room. He’d set his long black table with intricately folded white napkins and very nice dinnerware.
He sat me at the head of the table, taking the spot at my right, and didn’t let me lift one finger to get the food, serving me like I was royalty.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d tried to feed me each bite by hand, but thank God, he did not.
We had an awkward moment when I took my jacket off and he got a load of my shirt. Yes, I was sporting side boob, and yes, I knew that would drive him crazy.
We got past it though, after a few minutes where all of the oxygen left the room, and he just stared at me like a man starving.
I looked down at my food and started eating.
He could still cook his ass off. I found myself closing my eyes to savor each bite and eating way more than I needed to, when I rarely ate for enjoyment. I liked to think of food as fuel for my body and ate accordingly, but Tristan’s cooking had always knocked that theory right out the window for me.
I didn’t look at him as I ate. It was bad enough that I’d given in enough to even be here, but finding out if he still watched me like he used to would do nothing for my peace of mind.
And if he was indifferent now, well, there was no doubt that would be even worse.
“Is the food okay?” he finally asked me, his tone a little hoarse.
I just nodded, though okay was the biggest understatement in the world.
After stuffing myself to the brim, I finally made myself set my fork down. I wiped my mouth with one of his fancy white cloth napkins, still not looking at him. “Thank you, Tristan. It was very nice of you to cook dinner, but I really should be going.”
“Wait, you can’t,” he burst out, sounding more than a touch panicked.
Some thread of desperation in his tone had my heart twisting in my chest, and I finally looked at him.
He was watching me, his face deceptively blank, except for his eyes, which were pleading with me in a way that I’d never been able to resist.
“Why can’t I?” I finally asked, after we’d stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time.
“You can’t skip dessert.”
“I don’t think I could take one more bite of food. You know I can never stop eating your enchiladas until I’m stuffed.”
“So stick around for a while, and I’ll make us some dessert when you’re up for it.”
“Tristan—” I began.
“Please. Just hang out for a while. What’s the harm? We can watch the new episodes of Arrested Development and just chill. No funny business. I’ll sit on a different couch, if you want. I just want to hang out with you, like old times. Like friends.”
The pleading tone he used got to me. I never could tell this man no.
“I heard about those new episodes. I haven’t had a chance to watch them yet. Are they good?” We’d watched the old seasons at least half a dozen times each and had quoted the funny parts to each other more times than I could count. It wasn’t a show I’d been able to watch without thinking of him, so I’d avoided it very deliberately over the last six years.
“I haven’t watched them, either. It wouldn’t have been any fun without you.”
I bit my lip and gave him a rueful smile.
We’d ruined each other for so many things.
“Jerry tells me they’re good,” I remarked. “Can’t compare to the original, but good, is what he said.”
“Well I’d take a bad episode of that show over a good episode of anything else.”
We shared a smile.
As though it had been inevitable, I found myself relaxing on the sofa in a cozy media room just off his kitchen and watching the show with him.
He did behave himself at first, even sitting on a different couch, as promised.
But that didn’t last long.
Had I thought it would? Best not to think about.
“Relax, put your feet up,” he ordered, when we were two episodes in, and I was still sitting with my feet flat on the floor, my hands in my lap.
His plush sofa was huge, and it had been a struggle to sit up straight on it. I put my feet up, because it was just more comfortable, and I was starting to feel ridiculous.
We were another episode in, both of us laughing, when he moved to sit at my feet.
I shot him a warning look.
“Oh, relax. I’m not going to attack you.”
I felt silly and turned my attention back to the TV. I was clutching my belly and laughing when he started to rub one of my feet. His touch was firm, hitting just the right spot, so when I looked at him to tell him to stop, my mouth was already a little slackened with pleasure.
“Tristan,” I tried to warn, but it could as easily have been construed as a plea.
He kept his eyes on the screen, ignoring me completely either way, and kept rubbing.
I was basically a relaxed puddle on his couch by the time he moved to the second foot, and when he moved his hand up to rub my bad knee, I was done for.
It was three more episodes in, all the while with his pleasurable hands rubbing my knee, my calves, my feet, when he moved to lay behind me, his arm going over my ribs, hugging.
“Tristan,” I whispered. I didn’t even know what I was trying to tell him, let alone how it was actually perceived.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just for a moment, let me hold you. Nothing else.”
Nothing else, except for everything, I thought, my mind going fuzzy.
He was pressed hard into my back, and so I could feel that he wanted to do more, but he didn’t. He just held me and it wasn’t for a moment, but many moments, and for every second of it, I trembled.
“Thank you,” he said into my hair after a time, kissing me softly on the side of the head.
He got up and went into the kitchen, but quickly returned to sit at my feet. He resumed with the rubbing.
The house quickly filled with the smell of baking cookies.
“Oh God,” I said, somehow hungry again. “Chocolate chip?”
“You know it.”
I looked at him and smiled, and his hands froze.
I started to shake my head when I saw the look on his face, but he ignored that, moving to lay behind me again. He pressed hard against me, one arm thrown over me, and his big hand moved to my stomach and started to rub. To stroke.
He lifted up my shirt and kneaded at the skin over my ribs, then snaked his hand down into my skirt to massage the flesh around my naval. I lay there, stiff but trembling. Eventually, his hand moved low enough to dig into a rope of scar tissue, and that little tinge of discomfort was enough to give me some willpower.
His fingers had begun to feel at the hard ridge of the scar, as though to determine what it was, when I grabbed his hand and pulled it away.
His voice was rough and worried. “Danika, what was—“-“
r /> “I don’t want to talk about it.”
The oven timer began to chime, and I stood, going to sit at the round table in his breakfast nook.
I listened to him as he went into the kitchen, mapped out every move as he took the cookies out, and switched them onto a plate.
I looked down at my hands the entire time.
He joined me at the table, setting the large platter of cookies directly in front of me. He sat down beside me, and the second he did, on the side of my bad leg, he began to rub my knee.
That got me to look at him, which I was sure had been the point.
“What—” he started to ask again.
“No.” I shook my head, and tried to still the hand on my knee. It was persistent, though, and just kept rubbing. “I’m not doing this. We have a relationship with boundaries now, Tristan. I’m not going to give you what you want, every time you want it, just because I’m incapable of telling you no. I’ve changed and you’ve changed, and we need to have some rules, if we are going to be able to spend time together like this.”
“Yes, I know that, but I just wanted to know what that was—“
“No,” I said again, firmly. I would not waver in this. “I refuse to talk about it, and your hands should not be going there in the first place.”
His jaw clenched, and I saw a glimmer of his now rare temper flash in his eyes, but he shut them quickly, hiding it, shutting it down. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll drop it.”
Things were stiff after that. I ate two of the delectable cookies, then told him that I had to go. He didn’t protest, just packing me up a container of cookies to take.
“Oh, you don’t need to—”
“Take them,” he grumbled. “I made them for you. The least you can do is pretend that you want them.”
I nodded and took them. He walked me to the door and then to my car. He opened the driver’s side door for me, but then blocked me from entering.
He took the cookies carefully from my hand, setting them on top of the car. He turned to me, then slowly, softly, embraced me. He hugged me under the arms and lifted me against him. He pulled me right into his neck, and my arms went up to hook at his nape, holding on, since my feet had been lifted cleanly off the ground. He put his lips to my temple and just held on.
Neither of us said a word, but we didn’t let go. Not for a very long time.
I didn’t think of it until I was nearly home, but he’d never given me a tour of his house. Dammit, now I’d have to go back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He came by my gallery again the next morning, dressed in a suit. Again.
I was in the office, standing at my tall worktable as I got organized for the day.
I glanced at the clock. “Isn’t this way early for you?”
He shrugged, staring at me.
It was too intense of a regard, and I looked down at my hands while I moved some papers around.
“Come to my house for dinner tonight. I have a new recipe I want you to try.” There was no question in his voice.
I shook my head. “You know this is a mistake.”
His laugh was low and a touch bitter. “I don’t know that. Come home with me tonight. I’ll drive us straight from here.”
“And leave my car? How will I get home? And how will I get to work tomorrow?”
“I’ll drive you when I come back for the show, or whenever, wherever. I just want to share a meal. What’s the harm?”
I tried to give him a chastising look. Neither of us were naive enough to think that leaving my car here would end up in us just sharing a meal.
“I’ll come for dinner, but I’m driving myself.”
He smiled, flashing big, happy dimples, and I saw his move. He’d asked for too much, so I would concede more than I’d planned.
He moved to stand directly behind me. I shut my eyes as he pressed against me slowly.
“What are you doing?” I asked him, my voice catching.
“Shh, sweetheart, just let me. I need this.” He spoke against my temple, then kissed me there.
I let him.
He covered my hands with his own, and still, I didn’t pull away.
I wasn’t sure what he was up to, what he intended, and I wasn’t sure how long I would have let it continue, how far I would have let it go. It was taken out of both of our hands when Sandra popped her head in the office, effectively breaking the spell.
Which was embarrassing, but for the best.
“Um, sorry, but you’ve got a call on line one.” She disappeared.
“I need to work,” I told him.
He took a step back. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He left.
I tried to make myself call him and cancel, but my workday ended, and I found myself driving to his house, instead of home.
I still wore my clothes from work. It was business attire, a sexy twist on a simple navy sleeveless shirtdress, with a shorter hem, and the neckline open to reveal my cleavage down to the lace of my bralette. I’d taken the time to retouch my makeup before I’d left my office.
The pretense of this being platonic was flimsy indeed. Less believable by the minute.
He met me at the door in another dress shirt and slacks. I really wanted to know why he was dressing like this now, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer, stubborn man.
We shared another spectacular meal, a homemade linguine with creamy pesto sauce.
I assumed he had a show that night, but as we lingered over dinner, he started talking about watching more episodes with me.
“Don’t you have to get back to the casino soon?”
“Nah, no show tonight.”
That baffled me, as I was quite familiar with his schedule. This wasn’t one of the shows normal blackout nights.
“How is that possible?”
He just shrugged it off. “I have a good contract, and sometimes, if I just need an extra night off, I get a night off.”
I didn’t want it to, but that warmed me from head to toe.
I kept him company in the kitchen while he made us a totally unnecessary dessert.
He started making chocolate cake from scratch, and I perched my butt on the counter and watched him, as fascinated as I’d ever been to watch him working in the kitchen.
He shot me a sideways smile. “Sweetheart, you’ve got to stop giving me that look if you don’t want me to ruin dessert.”
“Don’t call me that,” I said weakly.
His smile grew as he turned back to his task. “That’s right. You prefer pudding. I remember now. Be careful with those looks, pudding.”
That made my fists clench, because it brought back memories, and that made me realize that every time he used his endearments on me, my endearments, it brought back memories. Those memories were going to break down all of my defenses in no time. That couldn’t happen.
“Boo, sweetheart, pudding. You have got to stop it with all of those damn nicknames,” I told him, making my voice firm.
“Endearments.”
“Well, call them what you want to, but knock it off.” I wasn’t even sure why I bothered. He clearly wasn’t getting the message.
He stopped what he was doing and turned to me. “Is this wager material? Do you want me to stop that bad?”
“Oh, no. You are not going to turn this into a bet.“
“You win, I’ll stop calling you boo. I win, you stop complaining when I do.”
“Nuh-uh. I already told you, not falling for it.”
“I’ll bet you one spoonful of cinnamon.”
“Excuse me? Is that a metaphor or some kind of a dare?”
“A dare. You eat one teaspoonful of cinnamon and you win.”
“I’m not you, Tristan. I can turn down a dare.”
“Prove it.”
“Now you’re daring me not to take the dare? Either way, I’ll be taking a dare. You’re setting me up.”
“Well, take the cinnamon dare and I’ll drop it.
It did sound easy. My eyes narrowed on him. “Just a teaspoon full? Not even a tablespoon?”
He grinned, showing every white tooth. “You don’t watch YouTube much, do you?”
“No, but what does that have to do with anything?”
He bit his lip and shook his head.
“Okay, you know what? I’ll do it.”
His response to my acquiescence was pure glee.
That should have clued me in, but hell, I’m as stubborn as he is, the crazy bastard.
First, he made sure a glass of water was on standby.
He spoke while he got out the cinnamon. “Here are the rules: No water for one minute, and the entire spoonful has to be swallowed in that amount of time. You spit it out, or go for the water, you lose. You swallow it, you win. Any questions?”
I was studying him, getting more paranoid by the second, but how hard could it be, really? One teaspoon, a teeny, tiny spoonful of something I loved the taste of?
“Nope. Let’s do this.”
I didn’t draw it out, grabbing the spoon and the cinnamon out of his hand, and getting it ready.
“Do you mind if I record this?” he asked. He already sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
“That was not part of the deal.”
“I have to warn you, this is going to burn your throat and you might throw up.”
I ignored him, pushing the spoon into my mouth, planning to swallow fast.
I hadn’t even pulled it out before cinnamon was shooting out of my mouth and nose as I went into a painful fit of coughing. I grabbed for the water, took a long swig, and spit that out too.
My throat felt on fire, eyes tearing up and running in mere seconds.
“Oh my God, it burns!” I gasped, going for another drink. I did this three times, then started to look around for paper towels. Not seeing them right away, I moved to Tristan and started rubbing my tongue on his very nice shirt.
The bastard deserved that and worse.
He was laughing so hard he was doubled over.
“I hate you,” I told him.
“Hey now!”
“This is disgusting. It’s stuck to the roof of my mouth! Ick!”
I went to the sink and started rinsing again, then back to his shirt to scrape my tongue again.