What If You & Me

by Roni Loren

  “Experimenting.” Enticing images flooded his mind, and he traced his thumb in the tender spot behind her ear. “That sounds kind of amazing.”

  “Really?” Her gaze widened, and he almost laughed at her surprise.

  “Why do you look so shocked?”

  “Because most guys are down for a hookup or even friends with benefits, but that’s because jumping in bed is implied. I’m telling you I may not get to that point. I’m telling you I’ll probably panic sometimes and flat-out reject you.”

  He released a breath. “Then most guys are dicks. Andi, someone hurt you and violated your trust. You’re dealing with the aftermath of that.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” he went on. “A kiss can just be a kiss. A touch can just be a touch. I understand it’s not a promise or an invitation for more than that. I understand the word ‘no.’ I understand the concept of slow. Have you seen me walk? I’m a goddamned master at slow.”

  She finally opened her eyes and smiled at that.

  “Plus,” he said, “kissing, touching, making out like teenagers—those things can feel pretty fucking good all on their own.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “They can.”

  “I miss those things,” he admitted, revealing probably more than he should. That he hadn’t kissed anyone since Christina. “It’s been a while.”

  “Me too,” she said softly.

  He searched her expression. “So, are we doing this, then?”

  Resolve came over her expression.

  “Yeah, we’re doing this.” Her hands went to the front of his shirt, and then she pushed up on her toes like last night, only this time her lips landed against his mouth. She pressed her lips gently to his. He closed his eyes.

  The kiss was sweet and soft, tentative. He kept his hand on her neck, feeling the quickening of her pulse and letting the pleasure of the contact suffuse through him. It’d been forever since he’d experienced that first blush of attraction with someone when everything was new. And it’d been so long since he’d been touched that even the simple kiss threatened to make him hard and hot.

  Luckily, she pulled back before he embarrassed himself. She looked up at him, her lips shiny, and she smiled a triumphant smile. “I kissed you.”

  He laughed under his breath. “I’m well aware. Every part of me is aware, I think.”

  “And I didn’t freak out.” She tipped her chin up, clearly pleased, and patted his chest. “Go, me.”

  “Gold star.” He pressed his thumb gently to her forehead like he had a sticker to award her.

  “My first werewolf kiss.” She lifted a brow. “Does this mean I’m going to turn at the full moon now?”

  He smirked. “Nah, I think I’d have to bite you for that.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” She playfully poked him. “This has got to be a Crock-Pot experiment—cooked low and slow.”

  He chuckled. “That’s the least sexy analogy I’ve ever heard. We’re a pot roast.”

  She sniffed, affronted. “Pot roast can be very satisfying.”

  He leaned down and kissed her gently, needing to take his own step forward, but he didn’t linger or push it further. “Yes, it can.”

  She rubbed her lips together and gave him a look that damn near melted his insides. “You’re pretty good at that, neighbor.”

  “I try.”

  She gave his T-shirt a little tug and then stepped backward. “Well, I’m going to get out of your hair. My people will be in touch with your people to arrange our next cook-and-watch. And we still need to take that WorkAround tour.”

  “You don’t need to leave, you know.” He jutted a thumb toward the grocery bags. “I could cook us something now.”

  She gave him a little smile. “No, I better go. Today’s been a big day. I need some time.”

  “Understood,” he said with a nod.

  She stepped forward and gave him another quick kiss. “Bye for now.”

  He watched her walk out, hips swaying, dress dancing around her legs, and marveled at the turn of events. He didn’t know what strange universe he’d landed in, but he hoped to stay a while.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Andi perused her DVD collection, trying to find the perfect follow-up to her and Hill’s Halloween marathon. There were some obvious choices if they wanted to stay in the foundational zone—Psycho, Nightmare on Elm Street, Carrie, The Shining. But she was in the mood for something different tonight. She was already feeling a little anxious because this would be the first movie date after their kissing-is-now-allowed conversation a few days ago. She needed something lighter.

  Horror comedy.

  She smiled. That could be perfect. Nothing slapstick but something that played with dark humor. She didn’t want to rewatch Scream yet. Hill wouldn’t appreciate that one fully since there was a lot of winking at tropes from previous horror movies. Her finger slid over the DVD cases. Gremlins was a possibility, but she liked to reserve that one for Christmastime. Jennifer’s Body. Maybe. Cabin in the Woods. Too meta. Ready or Not. Could be fun. Her finger stopped. Happy Death Day. “And we have a winner.”

  Lately, Andi felt like she was trying to reinvent herself, so it’d be appropriate to watch a horror movie with a Groundhog Day–inspired premise about a girl who needed to do some transforming to move forward. Plus, it was a good mix of scary and funny. She pulled the DVD out and set it on the coffee table. Only then did she realize her hands were trembling. She clenched her fists.

  “Ugh.” She shook out her hands and rolled her shoulders. “Be cool.”

  She closed her eyes and breathed through the wave of anxiety. Hill had said he understood she needed to take it slow, that he knew the word no. He’d shown her no reason not to trust that. If she didn’t feel comfortable doing anything more than holding hands on the couch tonight, he would respect that.

  WWBAD—what would Book Andi do? That’s what she needed to be asking herself.

  She opened her eyes, new resolve moving through her. Book Andi would definitely not stand here and let a panic attack ruin the night before it even started. She headed to her room to change into something cute. Hill would be giving his first cooking lesson tonight, so she needed something practical, but the old yoga pants she was wearing said working writer and not hot date. She searched through her stuff, settling on a pair of skinny jeans and an oversize dark-blue, off-the-shoulder top. Then she went into the bathroom and braided her hair in a face-framing Greek braid that Nessa, a beauty blogger at WorkAround, had shown her how to do. Finishing things off, she swiped on some lip gloss and freshened up her mascara. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she imagined Book Andi looking back at her. Let’s do this.

  A few minutes later, Hill knocked on the door right on time. Bonus points for him. Andi was a fan of people who knew how to be on time. She did a quick scan of the living room to make sure she hadn’t left anything embarrassing out, and swiped a bra she’d draped over the back of the couch. She stuffed it behind the couch cushion.

  When she made it to the door, she checked the peephole and then turned off the alarm before opening the door with a smile. “Hello, neighbor.”

  Hill was loaded up with two bags of groceries from Whole Foods, but he smiled over the top of them. “You sound like Mr. Rogers.”

  “Hashtag Life Goals. Here, give me one of those.” She reached out and took one of the paper sacks, and Hill followed her inside, shutting the door behind him. She peeked into the bag as she headed to the kitchen. “What delicious things did you bring me?”

  “You’ll see,” he said, a few steps behind her. “I figured we’d start off basic.”

  She grinned back at him. “The Basic Bitch cooking show. I’m here for it.”

  He snorted. “The alternative to Julia Child.”

  Andi set the b
ag on the counter, and Hill placed his next to hers. Before she could think too hard about it, she took his hand, stepped into his space, and kissed him quickly. “Hi.”

  He squeezed her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, and then gave her a warm look that made her stomach flutter. “Hey, yourself.” He glanced down at her outfit. “You look…wow.”

  She took a breath, her heart quickening, and stepped back. “Thanks. You get date wear tonight.”

  “I’m honored.” He released her hand.

  “You look great, too.” She took in his dark jeans and lavender T-shirt, the light color making all his dark features stand out. “Of course, we’re probably about to ruin both our outfits when you let me cook. Prepare for splatters.”

  He smirked. “I’m prepared for anything.”

  The words landed and sank in. She believed him. Whatever she wanted to happen tonight, he’d let her lead—whether that was nothing at all or kissing or more than that. “So,” she said, going to one of the bags and pulling a few items out. “What’s on the menu?”

  “Steak tacos with homemade salsa and guacamole.”

  “Ooh, yum,” she said, her mouth already watering at the thought. “What made you choose that? Besides the fact that tacos are the best.”

  Hill started unloading the other bag and spreading the ingredients out on the counter. Tortillas, steak, jalapeños. “One of the first skills you need to learn if you’re going to cook for yourself is how to use a knife the right way. This meal will give you lots of chopping opportunities.”

  She set a bundle of cilantro on the counter. “Or opportunities to end up at urgent care.”

  He laughed and pulled a box out of the sack. “Let’s hope not. I brought you a new set of knives. The best way not to get hurt is to have good, sharp knives.”

  “Ooh, thanks for that, but that logic doesn’t track, Hill,” she said, taking the box from him and eyeing it. “Sharp knives are less dangerous?”

  “Dull knives make you push down with more force and fight the knife, which can make things slip out from beneath it. I learned that the hard way when I first started cooking at the fire station. They had a crappy set of old knives that made everything challenging.” He set a red onion and limes on the counter. “I nearly took a fingertip off one Thanksgiving shift, trying to cut through a butternut squash.”

  “Ouch.” She took the wooden knife block out of the package, examining the shiny silver handles of the knives, making note that she needed to hide this in a cabinet. If someone broke in, these were too at-the-ready for handy murder weapons. “You need to tell me how much I owe you for this. You agreed to teach me how to cook, not outfit my kitchen.”

  “You don’t owe me anything even if I had bought them, but I didn’t. I had an extra set at my place.” He cleared his throat and focused on the groceries. “They were an engagement party gift. I’d rather someone be using them than have them sitting in my hall closet.”

  Andi frowned and set down the knives. He could’ve lied to her that he’d bought them, but she appreciated that he’d gone for the awkward truth instead. “How close were y’all to getting married?”

  He looked over at her as he flattened the grocery sack. “My accident happened a little less than three months before the wedding date.”

  Andi leaned back against the counter, considering him. “Wow, that close.”

  “Yeah.” He started organizing the ingredients, dropping the eye contact. “After that, we kept pushing the date back, waiting for me to fully recover. But then…everything else happened.”

  Everything else. Meaning, Officer Christina had slept with someone else. “I’m sorry.”

  He glanced over at her and gave a tight shrug. “It is what it is. Neither of us held up our end of the deal. I thought I was marrying someone who took the in-sickness-and-health thing seriously. She thought she was marrying the invincible firefighter. We were both wrong.”

  Andi’s jaw clenched at that. “That’s bullshit, though.”

  “What?”

  “If you marry a firefighter, you know there’s an inherent risk in that job. If you love that person, you’re taking on that risk with them. You don’t get to bail when they need you most because it’s hard or upsetting.”

  “I wasn’t the easiest patient.”

  She scoffed. “Who would be? You’d been through major physical and mental trauma. No one else gets to dictate to you what the proper way to respond to trauma is. Screw that.”

  He eyed her, his gaze holding hers. “Did someone try to do that to you?”

  She sighed. “Some people in my family would argue that what I went through wasn’t a trauma at all. So yeah, been there.”

  He frowned, deep lines cutting in around his mouth. “That’s… I’m sorry. You know if you ever want to talk about what happened, I’m a pretty good listener.”

  She nodded, the offer hitting her in a tender spot. “Thanks. I’ll let you know.” She forced a smile. “But enough about all that. I was promised tacos.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “And tacos the lady shall have.” He held out a container of grape tomatoes. “After she learns how to cook them for herself.”

  She smirked and walked over, taking the container from him. “I have a feeling we’re going to be ordering pizza after this.”

  “Nope.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a knowing look. “I have full confidence.”

  “In me?”

  He winked and patted her shoulder. “In my teaching skills.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ha.”

  “Go ahead and wash those tomatoes and the rest of the produce,” he said, cocking his head toward the sink. “I’m going to get everything else set up.”

  “Washing vegetables, I can do.” She grabbed a colander and went to work on the tomatoes, limes, cilantro, and peppers.

  When she was done, he patted the spot next to him at her rollaway island. “Join me, sous chef.”

  He’d grabbed the butcher-block cutting board that she’d bought on impulse at HomeGoods one day just because it looked pretty and set it atop the island along with the knives and some other items he’d gathered from her kitchen. She took her spot next to him and set the bowl of clean produce off to the side.

  His arm brushed against hers, the hair tickling her skin, as he grabbed the tomatoes, and goose bumps chased up her arm. “For tacos, you could make traditional salsa, which would involve a blender or a food processor, or you could make pico de gallo, which leaves it chunkier. Tonight, we’ll tackle pico.” He pulled a knife from the block. “For most vegetables, you’re going to use a straight-edged knife, but for soft-skinned things like tomatoes, serrated is better.”

  She eyed the pile of tomatoes. “We have to cut each one?”

  “Yes. They’re more work, but cherry tomatoes tend to be sweeter than regular ones—unless you stop at one of the roadside stands and find some locally grown Creole tomatoes, which are pretty much the tomatoes all other tomatoes aspire to be.”

  She laughed. “The grand pooh-bah of tomatoes.”

  “Without a doubt, but these little ones will be good practice for you. They’re slippery little suckers and have a tendency to roll away, which can cause you to cut your finger.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “Maybe we shouldn’t start here. These sound like the villains of the tomato world.”

  “Not if you know how to handle them.” He grabbed two white plates he’d taken out of her cabinet. “Here’s the trick.”

  He flipped the plate over and then put a layer of tomatoes onto the bottom of the plate where the rim kept them from rolling off. Then he took another plate and set it atop, trapping the tomatoes between.

  He took her elbow gently and guided her in front of him. “Now, they’ll stay put and you can slice a bunch in half at once.”

>   His arms came around each side of her, and his body pressed gently against her back. A hard wall of muscle. She sucked in a breath at the heat and feel of him.

  “This okay?” he asked.

  She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. Part of her recognized she was caged in by a guy with a knife, but the other part of her felt every inch of strong, beautiful man behind her. The two sides warred for control of her thoughts. The better side won. “I’m good.”

  “Great,” he said softly. He placed the knife in her right hand. “Put your left hand on top of the plate to keep the tomatoes from escaping. Then take this knife and slice horizontally between the plates. Use a small sawing motion back and forth.”

  Andi wet her lips and placed her hand on the plate. Hill’s breath coasted against her neck. She took the knife and placed it sideways between the plates. Her first attempt, a tomato rolled out.

  “Push down a little more,” he said in a quiet voice. He put his hand over the one that held the knife. “Like this.”

  He guided her hand in a gentle sawing motion while she increased pressure on the plate, and soon the knife had made it to the other side of the dish. But she couldn’t remember how it had gotten there because all she could think about was how good Hill felt against her, around her, how he smelled like mint and fresh-cut grass.

  “There you go,” Hill said. He lifted the plate, revealing a bunch of perfectly halved tomatoes. “And we didn’t draw any blood.”

  Andi smiled down at their handiwork. “Score.”

  “Now they’ll be safe to quarter with the smaller serrated knife,” he said. He handed her a different knife. “They won’t roll away now.”

  He showed her how to protect her fingers while she was chopping. He guided her through dicing an onion, and laughed along with her when she promptly ruined her mascara with onion tears. He taught her that she could ignore when recipes said to pick off individual cilantro leaves, that the stems could be chopped up with the leaves and it all tasted good. Before long, they were squeezing lime into brightly colored pico de gallo. And all the while, he hadn’t stopped touching her. Not aggressively. Not with innuendo. But in a way that made her feel more and more comfortable.