The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Bold.” Cohen smiles. “How did your parents take the change?”

  “Dad was skeptical at first. He’s not much for change when it comes to his meals, hence the Sunday-night goulash, but he gave it a shot.”

  “Let me guess—he loved it.”

  “Says it’s the best he’s ever had.” I can’t contain my smile. “It’s not traditional goulash by any means, but it’s the Rossi Way, and that’s all that matters.”

  He holds a spoonful up to me. “Well, I like the Rossi Way. It’s fucking delicious.”

  “Thank you.” I can’t help feeling flustered by his intense gaze and the way fucking rolled off his tongue so easily. He doesn’t seem to swear much, but hearing it just now was incredibly sexy.

  “I buy us tacos, and you bring over an amazing homemade pasta dish. I need to step up my game.”

  “Do you know how to cook?” I ask, realizing he probably didn’t have anyone to teach him growing up.

  “A little.” He sighs and shakes his head. “This is going to sound really pathetic, especially after the story you just told me.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.”

  “It is, trust me.” He lifts a brow. “I lived off takeout until two years ago, when I hired a personal chef to actually show me the basics of cooking. We were never taught when we were young, so I knew nothing when it came to the kitchen . . . hence my baking fiascos. But I was sick of takeout, so I decided to learn a thing or two. I’m no master chef at all. I know the basics of an omelet, grilling, and roasting veggies. But that’s the extent.”

  “Why would I think that’s pathetic?”

  “Because.” He stirs his spoon and then scoops up some pasta. “You actually had someone teach you—someone who loves you. Your family is wonderfully connected. I’m sure if I’d paid the chef enough, he would have pretended to be my father, teaching me the ways of the kitchen, but it was just a stranger.”

  “That’s not pathetic, and it’s not your fault, Alec. At least you decided to learn and made it happen. That says more than just hiring the personal chef to do all the work.”

  “When I burn my chicken in the oven, I often think about how much easier it would be if I’d hired a chef.” He chuckles and then takes another bite. When he swallows, he says, “Is it weird that I feel intimidated by you?”

  “What? No, you don’t.”

  He nods slowly and meets my gaze. “Hell yeah, I do. Very intimidated.”

  I nudge him with my foot under the table. “I’m not an intimidating person. I might have been a little brash out of the gate—”

  “That’s not it,” he says. “It’s your optimism, your knowledge, the way you effortlessly love your brother, and your thirst for life. It makes me want so much more than the life I’m living now.” He chuckles and pushes his hand through his hair. “Christ, there’s something about you that makes me get way too chatty.”

  “I like it,” I say quietly. “I like flipping over the cover and seeing what’s inside.”

  “About time,” he says with a wink before scooping up the last of his goulash and emptying his bowl.

  “You left the butter out,” I say, surprised.

  “I do read directions on occasion.” He laughs and then nudges me with his shoulder, the playful gesture adding to my already-heightened senses.

  That miniscule, tiny, itty-bitty crush I was talking about? Yeah, pretty sure it’s grown over the last two days.

  “You might read instructions, but you don’t operate the machinery properly.”

  “Not quite.” He chuckles. “But I’m a good student, so teach me your ways.”

  “Do you happen to have a hand mixer?”

  “Uh, I have this.” He points to the KitchenAid mixer. “It has other attachments.”

  I laugh. “I know. But I prefer a hand mixer when making frosting. I feel like you can get a better whip, and you have more control. Lucky for you, I brought mine just in case.”

  While I grab it from my purse, Alec slow claps for me. “Travels with own hand mixer. That’s really impressive, Luna.”

  “If anything, I’m prepared. And I know for certain the set will have both, so when you’re making the cake, be sure to use the stand mixer for the batter and the hand mixer for the frosting.”

  “I can do that.”

  I hold up the mixer. He goes to plug it in, but I stop him with my hand to his forearm. He looks at our connection for a brief moment before I say, “Always put the beaters on first, because if it’s plugged in, and you put on the beaters and accidentally switch the mixer on at the same time, you’re going to have some gnarly hands.”

  “Ouch. Okay, noted.”

  I attach the beaters in their respective spots and then plug in the mixer before handing it over to him. “We beat the butter first.”

  “Sounds so wrong. Beating the butter.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Hey, I’m going to go in the other room and beat the butter real quick—don’t wait up.”

  I pause and tilt my head, blinking.

  Blinking.

  “Did you . . . did you, Mr. Top-Rated Attorney, just compare beating butter to jacking off?”

  He switches on the hand mixer. “Matter of fact, I did. And guess what, both actions cream.”

  “Oh my God.” I pretend to gag, and he laughs out loud. “I don’t think I can ever look at you the same.”

  “Luna Rossi, are you a prude?”

  “What? No.”

  “Seems like it, if you can’t take a little masturbation joke.”

  “Dude,” I deadpan, and his smile grows even wider. “We’re making white frosting, which we’re about to eat, and you’re talking about masturbation. You don’t see anything wrong with that?”

  “Not really, no. But this conversation has led me to believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re a little bit of a prude.”

  “I’m not a prude.”

  “Prove it,” he says playfully.

  “Prove it? What do you want me to do? Go ‘beat the butter’ in the other room while you’re creaming the butter in here?” I say, using air quotes.

  His head tilts back as he laughs. “I mean, I was looking for a little anecdote from your past, but if you want to go beat the butter, by all means, feel free. All I ask is you wash your hands after. You know, for sanitary purposes.”

  “And here I thought you were more dignified than most of the men I date . . .” Oh fuck. “I mean hang out with. Not date. I didn’t mean to say ‘date.’ Just, you know . . .” I sigh and press my hand to the cupboard. “I think beating the butter in your bedroom would be less humiliating than this right now.”

  He just smiles and turns off the mixer, the butter properly creamed. “What next, boss?”

  “Soooo,” I drag out, “you’re just going to skip over that embarrassing remark?”

  “I was planning on it, despite liking the way your cheeks are all flushed, but you seem to want to keep talking about it.” He crosses his arms over his chest and props his hip against the counter. “By all means, let’s dive deep into what you really meant.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He reaches out and tips my chin up. “Now tell me what’s next, so we can move past your awkward moment and get on to my awkward moment. I’m sure one will happen soon.”

  Sweet. That’s what he is, a sweet, funny man.

  And dangerous.

  Dangerous because he’s a lethal combination of everything I’d look for in a guy.

  “Vanilla,” I say out of nowhere. “We need to add the vanilla and whip that in too; then we gradually add the powdered sugar.”

  “Got it.” He pours in the vanilla, and when we’re ready, I slowly add in the powdered sugar while he mixes. Silence falls between us, and I know it’s because I made that weird comment, something that just slipped, and made that Whitney Houston upper-lip sweat reappear with a vengeance.

  And I know the silence isn’t awkward for him, but it is for me, and I
need to do pretty much anything to end it, so I blurt, “Elevator.”

  He switches off the hand mixer. “Did you just say elevator?”

  “Yeah, I did.” I swallow and nod for him to keep mixing. “I, uh . . . I once flashed a guy on the elevator. Someone I didn’t know. Someone who kept staring at my boobs the whole way up, so I thought, Why not just give him the whole show, since he’s trying to rip my shirt off with his eyes? When I neared my floor, I turned toward him, lifted my shirt, and then left, leaving him there, looking pretty shocked.”

  “Um.” Alec’s Adam’s apple bobs in an intense swallow. “That’s . . . wow, why would you tell me that story?”

  “To prove I’m not a prude. I’m the exact opposite. I’m a . . . a sexual exhibitionist.”

  He smirks, just the right side of his mouth lifting up as his brow quirks. “A sexual exhibitionist, huh?”

  “Yup, big time.”

  “Okay. So what else have you done to earn the title ‘sexual exhibitionist’?”

  “Too many stories to even choose from. We’re talking so many stories I could fill a book, and I frankly don’t want to bore you.”

  “Try me.”

  His challenging nod grates on my nerves, just like the first weekend we met each other, but instead of wanting to give him a good pow-pow to the pectoral, I want to pull his head in with both hands and run my tongue over his face.

  Show him exactly what kind of sexual exhibitionist I am.

  He continues to whip, patiently waiting as I think back to all the crazy and outlandish things I’ve done. The only thing that comes to mind is positively pathetic, but it flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  “I was a Christmas tree for Halloween once. Yup, a Christmas tree. Homemade costume. Very eye catching.”

  “Naturally,” he says.

  “And being the clever minx that I am, I decorated myself with ornaments.”

  “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  I peek into the bowl and place my hand on top of his, turning up the speed to really whip the frosting, but I keep my hand over his to help guide him as well. I study his reaction, and when I feel his body shift closer to mine, I nearly jump out of my socks in excitement. He’s so close, inches away from pressing against me. His breath tickles the loose strands of hair on the back of my neck, and beneath my palm, I can feel strength in his fingers, his commanding grip. What would those fingers feel like gripping my hips?

  Is he good in bed?

  Who am I kidding? Of course he’s good in bed. He practically has SEX VIRTUOSO tattooed across his forehead.

  “So, the ornaments.”

  “What? Oh.” I laugh. “Sorry, yes, uh, the ornaments, sexual exhibitionist, sex-ebitionist.” He laughs as well. I like that sound, a lot. Deep and intense, but also full of humor. “So, I had them hanging off me, and get this.” I lean in a little more, trying to be sly. “I hung two ornaments right over my covered nipples, my very own Christmas melons.” I wiggle my eyebrows, and he laughs so loud I can practically feel the vibration in his chest.

  “Wow. You’re such a freak.”

  “Right?”

  “Positively a menace to society.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying . . . sex-ebitionist.”

  “Wait!” Alec shouts, stopping my hand with his. “Let’s . . . let’s just stare at it for a few more minutes.”

  “It’s been twenty minutes.”

  “I know, but I think it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever made.”

  I take in the two-tier cake—we kept it simple, with naked frosting and berries as decorations—and I smile. It’s really nice. I let him do all the decorating, just helping him occasionally with angles, and I have to admit it: he did a really good job.

  And can we admire the sense of pride running through this man right now? It’s so freaking adorable.

  He won’t stop smiling.

  He’s taken a bunch of pictures of it.

  And he keeps thanking me over and over again.

  “You did an amazing job. Unless Team Hernandez comes in as cake ringers, I think you have a good shot with placing second.”

  “Second?” He shoots a look at me. “Why not first?”

  “You’re going up against me, the master.” I wink.

  “Yeah, someone who admitted to leaving a cake on the windowsill for the rats to eat.”

  “I was joking.” I roll my eyes. Sort of joking. “But just because we’re friends now, that doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you.”

  “You’re calling me your friend?”

  “Yeah.” I tilt my chin up. “Have a problem with that?”

  “No, I like it.” He nods toward the cake. “Think I could have a picture with my friend and the cake?” He holds up his phone.

  “Of course.”

  “Here.” He hands me the cake carefully. “You hold it.” He puts his arm around me, his strong arm gripping me tightly as he squats down to my height and holds his phone up to us. “Smile,” he singsongs as he takes a few pictures. When he stands, he checks them out. “Man, I have a great smile.”

  “Oh my God.” I set down the cake before elbowing him in the side. He laughs.

  “What? Looking for another compliment? You know I like your smile.”

  “Not looking for anything but a piece of cake. Can we cut into it now?”

  “Fine, destroy my hard work.”

  “Destroying it is the best part—that means you get to eat it.” I cut the cake and serve us up two large slices.

  He nods toward the couch in the living room. “Let’s sit and eat.”

  We both take a seat. I sit down first and he follows, keeping little distance between us as he turns toward me, curling one leg on the couch and resting the arm that’s holding his plate along the back of the couch. He cuts into it with the side of his fork and scoops up his first bite. I do the same and hold my fork out to him.

  “Congrats on a job well done, Alec. You’re going to do great on Saturday.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for the help. You know this means a lot to me.”

  “I do.”

  Our eyes connect, something passing between the two of us . . . admiration maybe? But before I can truly analyze it, we both take a bite, breaking up the moment.

  Subtle flavors of vanilla and berries hit my tongue. Soft and sweet, the cake is perfect. I truly think this might be the best I’ve ever had.

  “Oh my God, Alec, this is so good.”

  He quickly takes another bite, his eyes wide in surprise. “Holy shit, did I make this?”

  “You did.”

  He glances at me. “We did.”

  “You did the work; I directed.”

  “So I would win the Academy Award for best actor, and you would win for best director, if this cake were a movie?”

  “And I’m pretty sure we would both be up on stage for best picture too.” I take another bite, savoring how moist the cake is. I moan. “This is so moist.”

  “Beyond moist. The most moist in all the land,” he says with a smile.

  “If there was a picture in the dictionary for moist, this cake would be famous for setting the standards of moistness.”

  “If this cake hosted a party, they would call it the hostess with the moistest.”

  I snort so hard that I swear cake almost flies through my nose. I swallow quickly and catch a breath, but I can’t contain my laughter. My hand falls to my chest. I try to gather myself, but it’s impossible.

  Tears stream down my face.

  “Hashtag . . . Hostess . . . with the Moistest,” I choke out between fits of giggles.

  Alec is laughing too, the sound much deeper and much more steady, as if he’s laughing more at my laughter than at the actual joke.

  “Oh shit.” I wipe under my eyes and take a steadying breath. “That was a total dad joke.”

  “Easily,” he says, his smile impossibly wide on his face. “Frankly, I’m a little shocked I even came up wi
th such a lame pun and got a laugh for it.”

  “I think I’m going to make a shirt with that saying on it. Top line: ‘Cake.’ Bottom line: ‘Hostess with the Moistest.’”

  He laughs. “They would sell out in seconds.”

  “Like hotcakes.”

  He tips his fork at me. “Like moist cakes.”

  “I hate you.” I laugh some more.

  “You might have before, but you don’t now.”

  I shake my head. “I really don’t.”

  “Yeah?” His brows rise. “Does that mean you would consider me a good friend?”

  “Maybe.” I shrug.

  “Well, well, well. How the tables have turned.”

  I nudge his leg with my foot. “Don’t make a scene.”

  “Hey, Thad had to learn it somewhere.”

  “The secret comes out.” I wink and take another bite. “So are you bringing this cake to the table on Saturday?”

  “Yup. Which means you need to come up with something else.”

  “Excuse me?” My brows lift in surprise. “Uh, I was the one who shared this recipe with you. This is mine.”

  “Ah, yes, but the teacher never steals from the student. They teach and they move on.”

  “That . . .” I shake my head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It did in my head.” He sets his fork down and wipes his mouth with one of the napkins we brought over. “Please, Luna. I know Thad would love this cake, and it would mean a lot to him . . . a lot to me.” He bats his ridiculously dark eyelashes at me. “Let me take the cake on this one?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Can’t I have my cake and eat it too?”

  “‘Hostess with the Moistest’ brought you next level; those last two just brought you down to basic.”

  “Ouch.” He chuckles. “You know, when you want to sting, you sting hard.”

  I lick the frosting off my fork and catch his gaze on my tongue, his eyes glazing over ever so slightly. Just to torture him, I lick the fork one more time and then scoop up another bite. His eyes drop and he swallows hard, making me believe that maybe he wants to be more than just a good friend, that maybe I have an effect on him too.