by Amy Daws
I can’t hide my grin as she joins me with her plate, and I pass her a glass of wine. I attempt to make small talk as we eat, but it’s nearly impossible when you’re tasting the best steak of your life. By the end, I’m debating whether to lick my damn plate. It’s that good.
“You can bake and cook. It’s too bad you never want to get married because you really would make someone an excellent wife.”
She rolls her eyes. “Every woman’s dream come true, right? To cook for her man. What more could she want out of life?”
A sheepish look masks my features. “Alright, I get it. You hate men.”
“I do not hate men,” she corrects, looking affronted. “I just hate the expectation that since my career is a traditionally feminine activity, it must mean I want to be a wife and mother. There’s a lot more to life than that.”
“Like?” I prod, my curiosity piqued over all things Norah.
She turns to face me, her blue eyes alight with determination. “For me, it’s obviously my business. It takes up a lot of my time, and I love it, so why would I let a relationship distract me?”
“Completely agree.”
“And if my dream to live in another country comes to fruition someday, having kids will make that exceedingly more complicated.”
“I hear you there,” I reply with a cringe. “Lynsey’s life with Julianna is practically unrecognizable to what her life was before. But surprisingly, she’s still managed to open a practice with her husband.”
Norah nods thoughtfully. “Some women can do it all. And maybe with the right partner, it could work, but good luck finding that. I’ve had a few boyfriends, and none of them could get over the baker’s hours.”
“Baker’s hours?”
“When I first opened the bakery, my croinut batches took three days to make. It was brutal. I was up at two every morning to get them going so they’d be ready for the morning crowds. Try being intimate when your alarm clock goes off at one a.m. I was in bed by six for most of my twenties.”
I inwardly cringe because her waking time is about the time that I’m getting ready to score. And her bedtime is when I’m usually working out and getting primed for the night. Her twenties sounded miserable.
“When did you ever let loose and have fun, Norah?”
She expels a bitter laugh. “Baking is fun. And it got hella more fun when I perfected the twenty-minute croinut and got to sleep normal hours again.”
I level her with a look because while yes, her “take a number, twenty-minute dough to dish” routine is a huge part of what makes her franchise so marketable, her “fun” she’s talking about is still all about work. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m serious. Baking is fun. And cooking is fun.” She stands and grabs both of our plates, but I rest my hand on top of hers to stop her in her tracks.
“You cooked. I clean.”
She shakes her head stiffly. “I’m particular about my dishes.”
My brow furrows. Jesus, this girl is worse off than I thought. I rise to my feet, towering over her meager five-foot-five frame and grab onto her shoulders. “Sit.”
I gently press her back into her seat and grab our plates off the counter. I set about rinsing the dishes, which don’t consist of much. The girl cooks clean. Every dish she used except her saucepan and whisk is already loaded into the dishwasher.
She winces when I bend over to load the plates. “Just…make sure they’re all facing to the left. When you face them toward each other, the water doesn’t get up between them.”
“Norah…do you do drugs?”
Her eyes widen. “No.”
“You should start,” I reply and load the dishes, ignoring her tiny murmurs of displeasure. I start the dishwasher so she can’t go back and redo what I’ve done. “Now, let’s go over these rules of yours before you have a nervous breakdown over the fact that I barely rinsed the plates before I loaded them.”
She rolls her eyes and slips off her stool to grab a yellow legal pad and a Sharpie out of a drawer next to her fridge. I use the opportunity to pour us both more wine. We’re going to need this.
“Okay, rule number one. No public displays of affection.” She writes down in perfect, kindergarten-teacher print NO PDA. “My mom will be watching me like a hawk, and if you’re touching me a lot, it’ll be obvious that this is totally fake.”
“Okay…what about hand-holding?” I ask, tilting my head curiously at her. “You think your family is going to buy that I’m your date if I can’t hold your hand?”
Rubbing her lips together, she nods. “I see what you’re saying. Okay, maybe hand-holding, but just the friendly kind. Not the waffling kind. That’s way too intimate.”
“I’m going to need a demonstration.”
She grumbles under her breath, clearly annoyed.
I love it.
She reaches down and cups my hand on my lap, flattening her palm to my palm and folding her fingers around the outside of mine. Her fingers are chilly and a stark contrast to my constant heat.
“Like this.”
I nod and stare down at her pale hand in mine. “And what is…waffling?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face.
“This.” She lifts my hand between us and interlaces her fingers with mine. Instantly, a warmth creeps through my body as her face flushes with color. Her eyes move from our hands to my eyes, and I see her swallow as she stares at my lips. “We can’t do this. This will be too much,” she croaks, her voice thick in her throat.
I nod, my eyes dropping to her lips, wondering what they taste like. “If you say so.”
She inhales deeply and holds her breath in her shoulders for a moment before shaking her head and abruptly dropping my hand. With trembling fingers, she clutches the marker and writes FRIENDSHIP HOLD on the list.
She continues staring at the notebook when she mutters, “And don’t do that staring thing you do sometimes.”
“Staring thing?”
She rolls her eyes and continues looking straight ahead. “You stare at me in the bakery sometimes, and it’s unnerving. Just…don’t do that.”
I inwardly cringe over being called out so blatantly on something I thought we were both enjoying. It’s a bit of a gut-check moment I need because all of this is fake. And Norah isn’t the type of girl to turn a fake thing into a fun thing, so I need to get a fucking grip. “Fair enough…I shall try to stop gazing at your immense beauty.”
She fights back a smirk and writes NO STARING. It’s highly emasculating, so I bark out the next rule. “No bossing me around at this thing.”
Her curious eyes lift, causing me to shift in my seat. “I don’t want your father to think I’m some sort of doormat. If I decide I want whiskey with my cake, you need to let me do that.”
“There will be a dessert wine—”
“Don’t care,” I cut her off. “If I decide I want white wine with steak or red wine with fish, you will let me be.”
Her nose wrinkles with disgust. “Why would you—?”
“Norah, it’s a guy thing. You don’t need to control every aspect of me, even if I am your fake date. This will be good for you.”
She exhales heavily like I just told her my rule was that we had to run naked through the party together.
“And while we’re at it,” I continue while I have her somewhat disarmed, “you can’t talk business.”
“What?” she exclaims, her blue eyes wide and accusing. “Dean, that’s the whole point of you being my date—to talk up my business. To show my mother that what I’m doing is important and impressive and…admirable.”
“I will brag about your business prowess. You will not. You will be the dutiful, sweet daughter who brought a date to the anniversary party like her mother wanted. I’ll handle your image with your mother and her friends. Don’t you worry. Plus, it’s going to be ten times more accepted coming from me, the new guy, than you…the disgruntled daughter.”
“I didn’t think I was disgruntled,” she murmur
s glumly and begins to doodle on the legal pad.
I reach out and touch her leg, feeling her jerk beneath my touch. “I don’t mean anything by it, Norah. I just want them to hear me, and if you’re too busy pushing your mother’s buttons, it’ll fall on deaf ears.”
Her face softens, and she nods before writing the last two rules. “This looks good. Just one more big, major rule. This might be the most obvious, but it’s also the most sacred.”
“I can’t wait to hear this.”
“No kissing.” Her cheeks deepen in color again as she focuses really hard on writing down this rule with apparently perfect penmanship. “I’m sure that was a given but better to have it all written out so we know what to expect. We absolutely cannot kiss. It will complicate everything.”
I sit back in the stool and watch her finish the list with a flourish at the bottom. She turns to me, and I smile. “What? We’re not signing in blood? Spewing bodily fluids into our palms and shaking hands?”
She rolls her eyes. “I like lists, Dean.”
“I’m gathering that, Norah.” I smile fondly at her. She’s cute when she’s flustered and trying not to be. “Well, if that’s everything, I guess I just need to know when to pick you up tomorrow.”
“The party starts at seven…so…six thirty? I don’t like to be late.”
My smile grows. “I’ll be here at six fifteen.”
She nods appreciatively, and we both stand, our bodies touching as we move away from the stools and walk down the hall.
As I turn to head down the stairs, Norah calls out. “Hey, Moser.”
I pause and turn to look at her.
“You ever done anything like this before?”
My brows lift. “Fake dated someone to get their mother off their ass? No, can’t say that I have.”
She fumbles with her fingers. “You think it’ll work?”
“Hell if I know,” I reply with a laugh. “But it’ll be damn fun finding out.”
“Your hair looks amazing,” Rachael exclaims with one last coat of hairspray before turning me on my vanity stool to look in the mirror. “I had no idea I was this good with white girl hair.”
My eyes widen as I take in the finished product. “Rachael, this is so, so cute.” I touch the loose Dutch braid across the top of my head. It sweeps down behind my ear like a headband and flows beautifully into short, loose beach waves. “I look like the mother of dragons from Game of Thrones.”
Rachael lets out a deep laugh. “Girl, I was going for backyard chic, but leave it to you to go medieval on me.”
I exhale with relief because my mother called last night to ask if I was getting my hair professionally styled for the party tonight. I knew it was one of her passive-aggressive digs because she’s hated my hair ever since I cut off eight inches last year. But dang, Rachael is better than a salon.
I stand and wrap my arms around her neck. “You really are a great friend.”
“Whoa, we’re hugging friends now?” she asks with a stiff voice.
I pull back nervously. “We are friends, right?” Ugh, I sound so stupid. Ever since my social life conversation with Dean, I’ve been feeling insecure about all my relationships.
Rachael’s chocolate eyes widen. “Yes, we’re friends, you fool. But you know I hate hugs.”
I shake my head from side to side. “Duh. Obviously, I know that. I’m just…I’m nervous, Rachael. Dean and I didn’t cover hugging on my list of rules, so I feel seriously unprepared.”
A knowing smile spreads across her face. “You like him.”
“I don’t like him,” I snap and turn to face the floor-length mirror to smooth out the wrinkles on my blush-pink floral mini dress. “I mean, yes, he’s cute. But he’s so cocky.”
“Which can be hot,” Rachael interjects.
“Okay, sometimes his cockiness is hot.” I wince. God, I really hate even saying that out loud, but it’s undeniable. Dean has this boyish magnetic charm and an uncanny ability to make a person feel totally at ease, blurring the lines between professional and personal. He’s just a carefree guy who doesn’t take life too seriously. “But that arrogance is only hot if I was interested…which I’m not.”
She rolls her eyes. “I thought once you promoted me to manager last year, you’d get more of a social life.”
“I’ve been social,” I argue limply because it’s a total lie. “I went to that franchise mastermind conference six months ago. That was very social.”
“That does not even come close to counting because it was still for work.” She hits me with a look of unmitigated disappointment. “And tonight, you had an opportunity to bring a real date, and you found yourself a fake one just to prevent having any sort of fun. Who does that?”
“Fun?” I bark out a laugh. “At my parents’ house? Unlikely.” I lean into the mirror and slather on a pale pink gloss that smells like cake batter.
Rachael moves to stand behind me, her giant ball of twisted braids piled on top of her head as she towers over me with all her statuesque bronze glory. She narrows her eyes at me. “I vote you still treat this like a date and have a good time. You work hard, and you deserve to have some fun with a man who you can…” She grabs my hips and swivels me side to side.
“Stop!” I squeak and fight back a nervous giggle as the image of Dean’s naked body hovering over me pummels me out of nowhere. I twist to face her and lose all humor. “I showed you the rules. There will be no hip action.”
She shakes her head sadly. “When was the last time you had any hip action?”
I squint and look up at the ceiling like it’s going to remind me somehow. “Well, Barrett and I broke up a few years ago, but we had that one random hookup last year.”
Rachael presses her hands to her temples, her jaw dropped. “How can you go a year without it?”
“I take care of myself, thank you very much.” My eyes flit over the bathroom drawer that contains all I’ll ever need in that department. Frankly, that drawer is ten times more fun than Barrett ever was.
She rests her hands on my shoulders. “Battery-operated toys cannot replace the natural power of a good dickin’.”
I bark out a laugh that gets caught in my throat, causing an uncomfortable cough attack when suddenly the buzzer on my door sounds off.
Rachael quirks a brow. “And he’s punctual…already a match made in heaven.”
“Go let him in, please,” I choke out and then scurry over to clear the mess spread all over my bathroom counter.
Rachael saunters away without a care in the world, and I immediately regret every decision about this night. I could have told my parents I wasn’t feeling well. Or scheduled an important business meeting that couldn’t be missed. Why can’t there be another franchiser conference somewhere right now? At least if I were there, I’d be excited and energized.
Not nauseous and wondering if the flips in my stomach are nerves or the urge to poo.
By the time I locate my jean jacket, I hear Dean’s low voice wafting down the hallway as he chats with Rachael. I do a quick peek around the corner, and I swear my nails dig into the plaster on the wall when my eyes land on him.
Dean looks…hot.
And annoyingly, no embarrassing lip sweat in sight.
He’s trimmed his dark beard so it’s just this thin layer of stubble that exudes sex appeal. He’s got on black slacks with brown loafers and no socks—seriously, how does he pull that off? And his perfectly tailored white button-down is peppered with black, tiny anchors, the top two buttons undone.
He looks effortlessly casual, like he listens to yacht rock on his imaginary sailboat. Nothing about me is casual or yacht rock smooth.
My body temp rises to a level that has me double-checking my deodorant as I swallow the lump in my throat and glance at myself in the hallway mirror. Bright red flesh stares back at me. Stupid fair skin. It shows literally every feeling I ever have.
Why can’t I be yacht rock smooth?
“Norah, stop freak
ing out and get your ass out here,” Rachael bellows, and suddenly, I’m no longer nervous. I just want to punch my friend in her pretty face.
Hesitantly, I emerge from around the corner and make my way toward them. I shoot an awkward smile to Dean and notice he’s not wearing his dark-framed glasses tonight. His brown eyes really pop now, looking less cocoa and more caramel.
“Wh-what’s up, Moser?” I stutter dumbly and fidget with my jacket.
“Norah, you look better than a strawberry cream croinut,” Dean says without skipping a beat. His eyes move down my body, and I feel like I could pee a little.
I clear my throat and point at the door. “Let’s get this over with, okay?”
Dean beams smugly. “Everything I’ve ever wanted to hear from a woman.”
Rachael laughs. “Try to remind her to have some fun, Dean.”
“I’ll give it the old college try.”
Dean winks at me, and I ignore the rush of butterflies in my stomach. He’s always been hot; this isn’t new information. My tummy flips are just nerves. Tonight is a business deal and nothing more. I can do this.
My parents live on the edge of suburbia Boulder. They built the house when I was in high school, and I remember drooling when my mother put a double oven in the kitchen. For as long as I can remember, my mother stayed at home, and my father worked long hours at his law office. Growing up, my mom was the one who taught me to bake and cook and do all the homemaker things. It’s ironic that she never wanted me to make a career out of it.
These were the pointless thoughts I rambled to Dean as he drove us to the party. I don’t think I stopped talking long enough to breathe because by the time he ushers me toward the gated entrance to my parents’ backyard, I feel faint.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” I ask, turning to face him and wiping my sweaty palms off on my dress. “We could just get out of here and get drunk instead.”
Dean’s eyes dance with amusement. “Do you ever relax enough to get drunk, Norah?”
My brow furrows. “I’ve been drunk before…I think.”