by Robin Kaye
Mike let himself into her apartment, and Dave met him at the door. "Hi, big guy."
Dave jumped on him as if to give him a man-hug or to slobber on his shoulder—both of which Dave accomplished. The dog went right to his bed and picked up the jockeys he'd stolen the first night Mike had slept there. He considered trying to get them away from Dave again, but he didn't want to waste time playing tug-of-war with the dog when he could be spending it with Annabelle.
He looked around the apartment, and color seemed to be everywhere—a bright, hand-woven blanket draped on the sofa, the brightly colored silk robe, and several unsigned oil paintings, all different colors, styles, and sizes, leaning against the wall, waiting to be hung. He made a mental note to find a hammer and picture hangers and hang the paintings. The carpet needed vacuuming, too, and the pictures on the floor would make that difficult. With Annabelle's ankle, he certainly didn't want her vacuuming. Besides, he'd always enjoyed cleaning, and he'd heard about the vacuum cleaner Nick had left and wanted to check it out for himself.
He tapped on the doorframe. "Can I come in?" Annabelle lay in bed wearing a pink tank top and matching boxers with her ice-bag-covered ankle propped up on a pillow. The tension of the bad day Mike carried melted on her smile.
"Oh, Mike. Thank God, it's you. As much as I love the Fairy Godfathers, I don't think I can take any more futzing."
He made his way to the bed. Had she posed intentionally to look like a Victoria's Secret model, or did she always look ready for a photo shoot whenever she wore little pajamas or nightgowns? So far, he'd seen cute and sexy—they both drove him crazy.
"They've been great. But Wayne hovers, wringing his hands and suggesting shopping trips, and Henry is always trying to ply me with sweets. I don't eat sweets."
"You don't?" Mike lifted the ice bag off her ankle. It was almost as colorful as the paintings he'd seen at the gallery. The swelling wasn't too bad and didn't seem to be getting any worse.
"No, I'll eat the occasional cookie, but not cakes, doughnuts, or pastries. Not my thing, and I didn't want to be rude…"
"So you ate them." Mike replaced the ice bag and sat beside her. His hand had a mind of its own. He touched the bare skin of her shoulder and followed it down until it rested comfortably on her waist.
She nodded and took his other hand in hers. "Now I feel a little sick. I guess that's why I don't eat sweets."
"Did you eat lunch?"
"No, did you?"
"Annabelle." He squeezed her hand before letting go. "We're talking about you here, besides you're taking pain pills on an empty stomach, which could be why you're nauseous."
She rolled her eyes. "Look, I'm trying to change the subject."
"And I'm changing it back. You need something to eat that's not loaded with sugar and fat."
"Fine. I'll call for Chinese. They deliver."
"No, you won't. I'll throw together some minestra. They had some great produce at the corner market."
"Minestra as in soup?"
Mike rolled his eyes. "Of course soup. I worked my way through school at DiNicola's. I've eaten more minestra than most people in Italy. It was one of the first things Vinny taught me to cook."
"You cook?"
"Just about anything on Vinny's menu in the last ten years. Then there are the recipes I made up."
"That explains why you're so good in the kitchen."
He leaned over so they were nose to nose. "I'm good just about everywhere." The way her blue eyes widened and then darkened before he'd even reached her mouth made him wish for the thousandth time that she hadn't fallen off the damn ladder. He gave her a peck and rose from the bed. The frown that flashed across her face sent his ego on a joy ride.
He was about to leave for the market when he realized he'd forgotten to give her the sketch pad and pencils. "I picked up a few things to keep you occupied."
"You didn't have to do that."
No, he didn't, but it was worth the cost of admission to watch her bounce around on the bed like an excited kid on Christmas morning.
"It's just a sketch pad and some pencils. I didn't think you'd brought any of your art supplies home with you. I had the sales girl sharpen the pencils just in case you didn't have a sharpener here, either. If you want me to run over to the gallery and get anything else, let me know."
"That's so sweet."
But she didn't look happy, and she made no move to investigate the contents of the bag. As a matter of fact, she eyed it as if she expected a snake to slither out.
"Well, I'll run to the market and pick up whatever I need. Do you want anything special?"
"No thanks. Um … look, let me give you some money—"
Mike shook his head. "I've got it covered."
She started to protest, but he cut her off with a look. It didn't stop her from mumbling a curse in Italian.
Twenty minutes later Mike returned from the market with three bags of groceries and peeked in on Annabelle. She was sound asleep with the sketch pad still in its wrapper and the pencils still in their box beside her on the bed.
Dave jumped onto the bed and nudged the book out of the way before he laid his head on her lap.
Annabelle awoke to hammering and the scent of garlic, onions, and tomato; for a second she thought she was back at her parents' home in her old bedroom. Her stomach growled.
By the time she put on the stabilization boot, got her crutches, and hobbled to the hallway, Mike was dishing out soup thick with pasta and sprinkling what looked like homemade croutons and Parmesan cheese over the top of each bowl.
"There's Sleeping Beauty. I was about to wake you."
Well, Sleeping Beauty didn't feel so beautiful. Hungover and groggy was more like it. She moved slowly through her apartment's obstacle course to the bar separating the kitchen from the dining area. Adding Dave to the mix made it twice as challenging. She leaned the crutches against the bar before sliding onto the barstool. Her kitchen was sparkling, the toaster had been put away, and the breakfast dishes she'd left in the sink that morning were on the dish drain drying. Mike had hung all the paintings she'd placed around the apartment, which explained the hammering, and the entire place looked as if it had been cleaned and vacuumed. Mike must have done that, too. She didn't know whether to be pleased or offended, so she settled on pleased. She was no Suzie Homemaker and never would be if she had any say about it. "You cleaned?"
Mike put a bowl of soup down and began garnishing the second. "I just hung the paintings and gave the place a quick vacuum. I know you're not in any shape to, and the dog hair builds up so fast. I hope you don't mind."
"Mind? Why would I mind? Thanks for all your help. Whatever you cooked smells amazing."
"There's chicken in the oven, and I threw together a salad."
"Wow. How long have I been asleep?"
Mike set the soup bowls on the table and pulled her chair out. "I went to the market an hour and a half ago, and when I checked on you after I returned, you were zonked."
"Yeah, I took a pain pill. After that, I couldn't keep my eyes open."
She scooted off the barstool and tried to grab the crutches, which slid along the bar and crashed to the floor. Hopping on one foot toward the crutches, she bent to retrieve them when Mike's hand wrapped around her arm and stopped her.
"Whoa, I'll get those. The last thing we need is you falling again."
She blew her hair out of her eyes. "Hey, I'm not a complete klutz you know. I only fell off the ladder because I wasn't wearing the right shoes, and I was trying to keep Ben from looking up my dress."
Mike's grip on her arm tightened. "Ben looked up your dress?"
She was tempted to roll her eyes. "I don't know. But he held the ladder, and I didn't want to give him the opportunity."
"Oh, okay."
She did roll her eyes then. "So glad you approve. Now I can sleep nights." She couldn't believe that came out of her mouth—it had to be the drugs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was rude."<
br />
Mike placed the crutches against the wall and wrapped his arm around her waist. Serving as her human crutch, he helped her into the chair.
"No, you're right. I was out of line. Believe me, I don't know where that came from. I'm not the jealous type. At least I don't think I am."
"Hmm. I'm not the snarky type. At least I don't think I am. But then I'm not the klutzy or invalid type, either. I hope it's not you who brings those out in me."
"Yeah, that makes two of us." Mike brought water to the table. "No wine for you." He poured water into pretty goblets she hadn't noticed before.
Rosalie left everything in her kitchen for Annabelle because Nick had everything anyone could possibly want in a kitchen and then some. The kitchen was one room Annabelle wasn't interested in. It was a necessary evil. She only made coffee and the occasional bagel. Well, she didn't actually make the bagel. She sliced it, and sometimes toasted it. That's pretty much as far as it went unless she was forced to cook one of her three meals. Mike seemed to really get off on cooking, so maybe he wouldn't mind that she didn't.
Annabelle took a sip of the soup, and the flavors exploded in her mouth. Wow, that guy Vinny did one hell of a job teaching Mike to cook. She would never have known he wasn't a full-blooded Italian by the taste of his soup. He made a better minestra than her own mother. Mama might be a complete pain, but she was a fabulous cook. This explained why Annabelle and Rosalie never learned. The complete pain part kept them out of the kitchen. And since there was always good food on the table, they never bothered to do anything but reheat. She was killer with a microwave.
"Wow, this is amazing."
"Thanks."
"I have a confession. I only know how to cook three meals, and I usually screw those up." Why was she telling him this? Note to self: lay off the painkillers.
"Really? You did a great job the other night."
"I got lucky. I don't mean I got lucky—I got lucky. I mean I did … well, after you came back…" Oh man, that's not what she meant to say. Mike's eyes were laughing, but thankfully, he was gentlemanly enough not to laugh out loud. "…I was talking about cooking, and what I meant to say was that maybe it turned out okay because I made all the mistakes I possibly could last time I tried to cook. We're talking disaster. Kinda like now, only when it came to food, not when it came to babbling like a complete idiot. I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm usually not like this."
"I'm glad you think you got lucky. I think I got lucky too. I like you, Belle, especially when you let your guard down. Maybe it's the painkillers, but I choose to think you feel comfortable with me."
Stunned, she searched for words. Mike held up one finger just as she was about to speak. He probably saved her the embarrassment of putting her foot in her mouth again.
"I'm going to get the chicken. Hold that thought. I'll be right back."
Mike set out two plates with chicken in a lemon sauce with artichokes and capers, a side of broccoli, artichoke risotto, and a beautiful cucumber, tomato, and olive salad. Annabelle sat and stared. He wasn't kidding about knowing how to prepare everything on the DiNicola's menu. And the way he plated the food made her feel like she was sitting in one of the finest Italian restaurants.
"I can't believe you know how to cook like this, and that you did all this, vacuumed, and hung my paintings in a little over an hour."
"The risotto is instant—I usually make it from scratch, but you needed to eat. As for the rest, I learned to chop things quickly, and really, the prep work is the most time-consuming. I vacuumed and hung the paintings while I was waiting for everything to cook, and as for the cooking … it's really not difficult."
"Oh come on, it's an art. One I don't think I'll ever master." She didn't mention she had no interest in even trying. She tasted a bite of the chicken and closed her eyes. Oh, God, that was good. Amazing. When she opened her eyes, Mike stared at her the same way he had right before they made love. Her breath caught. She didn't know if it was from fear, excitement, or a weird combination of both. But whatever it was, she'd never experienced it before. She wasn't sure she liked it, but didn't know why. She'd think about it later when her head didn't feel as fuzzy.
Mike sipped his water. "There are all different kinds of art. What's your specialty?"
Annabelle bit into the broccoli sauteed in garlic and olive oil. "Hmm?"
"Your art, what medium do you prefer?"
"I don't."
"But your office—it's a beautiful art studio."
She shook her head. "I used to paint, but I don't anymore. Ben thinks that by forcing me to work in a studio he'll make it impossible not to paint. He doesn't understand."
"Understand what?"
She threw her hands up in the air. "It's gone. It's not like I wanted it to go, and now I don't know how to get it back."
"What's gone?"
"Whatever it was that made me a painter. Don't you think I've stood in front of a canvas and tried to do something? Anything? It's like when I lost Chip, I lost that part of me, too. I don't think it's ever coming back. And that's okay."
"It is?"
"I'm fine without it. I'm still in the art world. I deal with artists. I like what I do."
"And Chip was or is…?"
"Was. He died." She didn't remember mentioning Chip's name, but she must have, because how could he have known? She never talked about Chip except to Becca. She wanted to stuff more than food into her mouth—anything to keep her from talking without thinking. It had to be the drugs. She sent up a prayer that Mike took the hint and dropped it.
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." She stared at her plate like she'd never seen it before. When she finally stopped moving her food around, her eyes were shuttered. She might as well have put a big do-not-disturb sign on her forehead. She put her fork down and pushed her plate away, half the meal uneaten.
"I'm sorry. The food is great, but I'm just not very hungry."
Funny, neither was he. "It's fine. You've had a hard day." He stood and took the plates back to the kitchen. Chip, he'd heard that name before. She'd said something at the wedding but he couldn't recall what. He did recall staring at her cleavage. Great. That Y chromosome was a real bugger sometimes. Who was Chip? And who exactly was Chip to her?
As she pushed her chair out, Mike rushed over to help her.
"Do you want to go back to bed, or would you rather sit on the couch?"
"I want to help with the dishes."
"Don't be silly. You're injured."
"I know that. Geez, I could do something. I can't just sit. I'll go crazy. I don't know how I'm going to live like this. I have to run or at least walk. I don't do still."
"Shhh. It's going to be okay." He wrapped his arm around her and held her close.
"How do you know? You can go home, go to work, you can run in the park."
Mike didn't need a degree in psychology to diagnose this minimeltdown as more to do with that guy Chip than her ankle. He grabbed a napkin off the table and dried her tears.
"Great! Now I'm a blubbering, babbling fool."
She obviously wasn't up to talking about Chip, so he had no choice but to handle the stated problem first.
"It's okay. You'll be able to walk a little bit tomorrow if you use your crutches and don't overdo it."
"I'm crying, and I don't cry. Ever."
"It's okay."
"I can't even help with the dishes."
Mike turned and lifted her face to his. "I don't see the problem. You have the perfect excuse. Sometime when I'm off my game, you can do the dishes."
"I'd probably poison you first. I'm a terrible cook. I poisoned Becca, and I didn't even mean to."
Becca? Another person who meant a lot to her. He'd have to ask Nick and Rosalie about both Chip and Becca.
"We'll get takeout."
"Okay, then I'll do the dishes."
"Deal. Now couch or bed?"
She didn't seem to like the choices. Tough. When he started to help, she pushed h
im away. "I can do it myself."
God she looked cute when she acted like a two-year-old. He kept his mouth shut because he figured she'd hit him with her crutch if he said a word. He held his hands up in surrender and began clearing a path between her and the couch. He moved the handmade basket woven with purple, turquoise, and fuchsia reeds, the size of one of Vinny's huge stockpots. It was filled with balls of yarn and a knitting project, more colorful than the basket, with huge needles the circumference of broomsticks. Just as he was almost finished, she changed gears and went toward the bedroom. Rushing ahead of her, he cleared that, too. He didn't say anything when her crutch hit the doorjamb. She headed for the bathroom, stopped, turned, and caught him behind her. The scowl she wore didn't look at all happy.
"Are you gonna watch?"
"No, do you want me to get the door?"
"I can do it."
"Fine."
She managed to hold both crutches under one arm and then slammed the door in his face. Mike was about to go back to the kitchen and start cleaning when he heard a crash and a scream. He was through the door before he even knew what he was doing.
Both crutches were on the floor and Annabelle hopped on her good foot, cursing in Italian again. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I got mad, and without thinking I stomped my foot. It's a bad habit. It hurt. Then I dropped those ugly things, and I haven't even gone to the bathroom."
"Do you need me to help you?"
Wrong thing to say. She speared him with a glare that would turn lesser men into eunuchs.
"Do I need help to go to the bathroom? No! I've been doing that on my own since I was three. Thankyouverymuch."
Mike bent to gather her crutches. Damn, she'd scared the shit out of him. His adrenaline pumped, and his hands shook. He hadn't felt like this since the first time he saw an autopsy.
When he handed the crutches to Annabelle, she was staring.
"You didn't poison us, did you?"
She took the crutches from him and stared some more.
"No, why? Do you feel sick?"