“Why? You going to make Ava your sous chef?” Evan asked with a grin.
The idea of being in charge with Ava was way too appealing. Especially now that he’d fed her. Technically, yesterday hadn’t been the first time. She’d eaten his food before. But he’d never watched her do it.
It seemed ridiculous that chicken salad could be seductive, but that was his chicken salad. His creation and something he made for himself. He didn’t make that for anyone else.
And then there had been the way she’d closed her eyes. And the moaning.
Food—making it and eating it—could be a very sensual thing, of course. It could be an intimate thing to feed someone. Food was a basic human need. Right up there with breathing and sex. It was a way to nurture, to comfort, to reward. And yesterday with Ava, it had felt like a bonding experience. The people he typically fed were people he’d known for years, people he cared about, people who appreciated him. Ava wasn’t any of those things. And yet feeding her seemed more exciting somehow. He had no idea if she was an adventurous eater, but living in New York City, if she wasn’t adventurous, or at least eating a huge variety of foods from around the world, that would be a tragedy. He also felt challenged by her. She wasn’t overly impressed with him to start with. Or with anything, it seemed. But she’d been impressed with his chicken salad. That was something. He liked the idea that a small-town boy from Kansas might be able to surprise her with nothing but a few herbs, a whisk, and his hands.
And that sounded dirtier than he would have expected.
But it had definitely seemed seductive and intimate when she put things into her mouth that he’d had in his hands. The pleasure she’d gotten from it absolutely had been.
Parker shifted and cleared his throat. “If we’re baking, she’d be my pastry chef,” he told Evan. “But yeah, kind of.”
He didn’t cook for the women he dated. He always used the excuse that he cooked all day long and liked when someone else was in charge of the meal. Which wasn’t untrue. So they went out to eat. But the full truth was, cooking was personal for him. And the idea that he might make something and they wouldn’t like it, or would want to add ketchup, made his eye twitch. And he’d definitely never fed a woman in his kitchen at the diner before. He was never spontaneous about food. Or turned on by avocados.
But he didn’t shy away from nice restaurants and candlelight. So why was chicken salad and avocados feeling sexier than any other dinner he’d had with a woman?
Because this kitchen means more.
He knew the answer even before the words formed in his mind. His kitchen at the diner was more his than any other place in town. Even his house. Because he’d shared it with his father first. Because this was where he was most him. Because here he was fully in charge and did things his way. Because this was where he felt talented and successful and fulfilled.
Which was probably why it had felt like Ava was intruding even more in his personal space when she was sneaking into his kitchen than if she’d showed up at his house and stolen his television. Which was probably why it made him more irritable too. Plus, she’d been stealing his butter. He’d considered buying a cow recently with the number of trips he’d been making to the store to restock.
“There’s nothing to prevent that,” Evan told him.
Parker blinked at him. There was nothing to prevent Ava from stealing his butter? Or there was nothing to prevent her from getting under his skin and driving him nuts? Yeah, he’d been afraid of that.
“You can definitely help her in the kitchen,” Evan said, watching him carefully.
Right. The helping her in the kitchen, thing. Her kitchen. Which would absolutely not feel as intimate. He’d hung out with Rudy over there from time to time but he’d never worked over there. And it definitely wasn’t his. Yet. Nor was it really Ava’s. Her heart wasn’t over there. So it was just a kitchen. And they were just going to be making pie.
Parker didn’t have a bell over the door to the diner like the pie shop now did. But he didn’t need it to know that someone had just walked in. And he didn’t need to turn around to know that it was Ava. It was as if the energy in the room shifted. Or heightened. Or something.
He glanced over to find her heading straight for him. She was in one of her skirts and another pair of heels. These shoes were black, but her skirt was red. Of course. Ava wore a lot of red. As in, she had something red on every day. Whether it was her blouse or her skirt or her shoes or her accessories, she always had red somewhere. She often wore black. But she also wore navy blue and gray. All of which, apparently, went with red. He sighed, even as his body tightened. He should not know that. He should also not like those skirts and shoes. Since when did women’s clothing really have such an effect on him? Okay, clothing that wasn’t jeans, anyway. He loved a woman in blue jeans. He especially had loved Ava in blue jeans. With her fucking red high heels.
She stopped in front of the counter next to Evan.
“It’s only twelve twenty,” Parker told her with a frown that had a lot more to do with the sudden tightness behind his fly than it did with her being there early.
“I know.” She handed him a booklet. It was bound in a plastic report cover. The spine of which was red. Of course. It also had colored tabs.
“What’s this?”
“The results of the pie filling taste-test,” she told him. She pointed. “The red tabs are my references and the blue are the photos.”
“Photos?”
But she’d slipped behind the counter and was tying on an apron. An apron that she’d brought with her. That was white with tiny red cherries all over it. And a ruffle around the edge.
Ava Carmichael didn’t seem like the ruffle type. And yet, she looked absolutely fucking perfect in that apron.
6
Parker rolled his eyes. God, he was a fucking mess. He was all about the food. So that was one thing. But now aprons turned him on? And this wasn’t some Oedipus thing he had going on where he associated aprons with nurturing from his mother as a child. Patty Blake hadn’t so much as baked a cookie her entire life. When they’d lived in Chicago, they’d had a cook and when they’d moved to Bliss, his father had, obviously, been the cook in the family. Patty was great with the customers and loved to pitch in and help with dishes and chopping and clean up and such. But she didn’t go near the griddle or the oven. And she made no apologies for it either.
No, he didn’t want a wife who would stay home and bake all day or whip up amazing four-course meals. That apron and the tiny cherries that seemed to mock him were all about the woman inside it.
“Are you finished?” Ava asked Al Jenkins, who was sitting at the lunch counter.
“Uh, yeah, I guess,” Al said. He was probably distracted by the cherries too as Ava picked up his plate and carried it to the kitchen. And possibly the perfect breasts filling out the top part of that apron.
Parker, on the other hand, was enjoying the view from behind, where the apron’s bow tied at the small of her back and where the apron opened as if to frame the gorgeous ass in the red skirt that seemed at odds with the frilly apron. He went ahead and continued to appreciate the view the rest of the way down to the shoes that were in no way practical for any job that required an apron.
“You have an apron?” Parker asked as she came back through the door. He’d never seen her wearing one when she snuck—or stomped—into his kitchen for supplies, or the times when he’d stomped into her kitchen to demand to have his butter back.
Of course, that never worked. She’d always used it by the time he went after her, but it still gave him an excuse to see her and spar with her a little.
Parker felt his eyebrows slam together at that though. He did not go over there just to see her. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t enjoy their tiny arguments over butter.
So why did he keep having them? Why didn’t he keep his back kitchen door shut—and locked? Why didn’t he hide his butter?
He was going to think about
all of that. Later.
“I got it this morning,” Ava said, turning to show off the apron. As if he hadn’t already checked out every cherry and ruffle.
“Where did you get it?” Parker asked. No place in Bliss sold aprons.
“From the post office.”
“You ordered it?”
“My assistant did.”
“You have an assistant?”
“Of course I have an assistant,” she said, perturbed. “And my assistant has two assistants.”
Right. Her assistant in New York. The one that worked for her at Carmichael Enterprises. “She bought you an apron?”
“She ordered it and overnighted it here for me.”
In the time it had taken her to ask her assistant for assistance, she could have ordered the damn thing herself. But she’d probably never placed an order for anything in her life. Parker reached behind the counter and pulled out one of the white waist aprons he wore. He held it up.
Ava lifted a brow. “That does not go with my outfit.”
He looked at it. “It’s white. White goes with everything.”
She gave him a pitying look. “Let’s just say that mine is a lot cuter.”
Cuter. Also not a word he’d typically apply to Ava. Or assume she would use. Ava was a lot of things—sharp, intelligent, bossy, intimidating, gorgeous—but cute was not on the list.
Except when she wore a frilly apron with cherries on it. It was probably a good thing that she hadn’t worn that apron before, come to think of it. She seemed a lot more…approachable, or something…in it.
“And you needed to look cute?” he asked.
“When the alternative is looking not cute, then yes,” she said, her gaze running over him from head to toe, clearly insinuating the not-cute thing applied to him.
He moved in closer to her and watched her pupils dilate. “You don’t find me cute, Boss?”
She wet her bottom lip and looked up from his tennis shoes, past his apron, over his chest and to his eyes. Slowly. “Nope.”
He gave her a half grin. “Darn.”
“What I do find you is in my way,” she told him, stepping past him, and putting an elbow into his side as she did it, nudging him back.
He watched as she refilled a water glass, picked up another plate from the lunch counter, then started on the tables. She picked up dishes, handed out to-go boxes, and chatted with everyone while at the same time making it clear that they all needed to start wrapping lunch up.
He felt…flummoxed.
And he didn’t like it.
“You okay there, Parker?” Evan asked, sounding more than a little amused.
“Not really,” he muttered.
Evan laughed. “I think it’s genetic.”
“Me not being okay?”
“All of…that.”
Parker glanced over as Evan waved in Ava’s general direction. His gaze found Ava again. “But Cori’s so bright and bubbly and Ava’s…not.”
“But they have a way of taking over a room and making it impossible to ignore them.”
“I should have asked Brynn out,” Parker said, almost under his breath. “I knew it.”
Again Evan laughed. “Because she’s the sweet, quiet one?”
“Exactly.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t seem to have helped Noah ignore her.”
That much was true. And was the reason Parker couldn’t ask the introverted scientist out now. She and Noah were…friends. Close friends. He knew for a fact it hadn’t gone beyond that. Yet. But there was something about the two of them together that made it seem wrong to even think about taking the middle triplet out to a movie.
But he wanted sweet. And quiet. He wanted someone who would just let him do his thing and she’d do her thing and they’d coexist contentedly, with lots of routine and habits and… He frowned as Ava approached Al at the front counter again. And no surprises. He wanted to know the woman he was with was exactly who he thought she was and would do exactly what he thought she would do. At least when they weren’t having rocking, blow-his-mind sex. That was the one time when some noise and few surprises would be just fine.
He watched Al grin and Ava laugh, and he shook his head. He definitely wanted sweet, unassuming, not-pushy, and not-bossy. But without any conscious thought, his gaze dropped to Ava’s heels and he added looks like a sex goddess and makes me want to do more than cook on my center kitchen island.
Ava turned toward him, and Parker wondered if he’d said any of that out loud accidentally. She came to stand in front of him but didn’t say a word as she continued to watch him. And reach for him. And into the center pocket of his apron.
His body tensed and he felt like his nerve endings were being touched with the tip of a fireplace poker. It was hot and sharp, almost painful.
The slide of the stack of order receipts from his pocket sent a jolt of awareness from his scalp to the soles of his feet. He honest-to-God had never felt that before. It was…
Then she broke eye contact to look down at the slips of paper she held. And Parker could suddenly think again.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She flipped through the papers, then looked over her shoulder at Al. “Reuben and fries?”
“Yep.”
She tucked the other receipts into her pocket and turned on her heel, handing Al his ticket without answering Parker.
“It’s not added up,” Al told her.
She put a hand on her hip. “How long have you been coming here, Al?”
“As long as the diner’s been here.”
“And how often do you order a Reuben and fries?” she asked.
“Probably once a week.”
“And has the price of anything on this menu changed?” She glanced at Parker. “Ever?”
“No,” Al admitted.
“Then get your phone out, put the amount that you usually pay in there, add a twenty-five percent tip, and I’ll meet you at the register.”
Parker shook himself. What the hell had just happened? “You’re covering the register too now?” he asked as she moved past him, a puff of air that smelled surprisingly like apples, floating behind her.
She was taking over his diner.
Of course she was.
“I’m really good at taking money from people,” she told him with a smile.
That was almost flirtatious. No. No, no, no. He most definitely did not want apple-scented bossiness taking over and flirting with him.
He started to reply, but saw Pam Conner and Tina Lawrence watching from one of the booths with a smile. Ah. Right. He was supposed to be the three-months-left boyfriend. Crap. She was driving him nuts. He didn’t know why Ava was flirting with him, but he couldn’t shut it down. Not for about eleven weeks, two days and twelve hours, give or take.
“Anything you’d like me to do?” he asked Ava, quietly, with lots of sarcasm but also a smile. That he hoped didn’t seem too fake.
“As a matter of fact, you could go in the kitchen and start cleaning up so we can get out of here on time today,” she said, also quietly and also with a smile. That looked a little forced.
But she had a point. He did need to get her working on the pies and he couldn’t do that here. Well, he could, of course. He had a kitchen, after all. And seemingly, a lot of the supplies that Ava needed. But he would not bake with her here. Making her chicken salad was bad enough. He wasn’t going to spend even more time with her back there. Feeding her. Showing off new recipes that no one else would appreciate. Watching her lick the spoons…
Parker mentally slapped himself. He was not going to cook or bake with Ava Carmichael in the diner’s kitchen. Period.
He watched as she bumped the kitchen door open with her hip, shooting him a look that clearly said, “come on already” as she disappeared through it.
“I know that it seems like she’s working for you here,” Evan mused. “But doesn’t it kind of feel like she’s in charge?”
“Shut up,”
Parker told him flatly, not looking away from the swinging door.
Evan just laughed. “She also seems very eager to be alone with you.”
“She’s—” Yeah, she really did. He knew it was because he’d told her she needed to learn to make pie, and he was her means to that end. But this could definitely work in his favor. He looked at his friend. “She is definitely eager to be alone with me.” That was true. It might not be for what Evan was insinuating—and what everyone was, hopefully, thinking—but she was definitely going to do whatever she could to make sure she had him to herself.
“What’s that about?” Evan asked.
Parker looked around and raised his voice slightly. It wouldn’t hurt to have a few people overhear this. And assume what they wanted to about what he said. “We never got to the fruit picking the other day. Or the day after that,” he said. “Never made it out of the kitchen.”
Evan lifted a brow, but he simply said, “Oh.”
Parker was sure Al had heard him and, with any luck, so had Pam and Tina.
“And what’s that all about?” Evan asked, pointing at the report Parker still held.
He looked down at the bound pages. She’d done a report. With a plastic cover and colored tabs. Damn. That should not be hot. Or funny. But it was both. Or rather, she was both. And that was a problem.
“I made her taste-test pie filling.”
“Seriously?”
Parker wasn’t sure if Evan’s surprise came from the idea of anyone making Ava do something, or if it was the pie filling part. He nodded. “Seriously.”
“And she wrote a report about it?”
“Evidently.”
“Wow,” Evan said, nodding. “Look at you, being in charge. I didn’t realize you had a professor-grad student fantasy.”
Parker gave him a look. “I don’t.”
“But you do have an Ava fantasy. And you made her write a report,” Evan pointed out.
“I didn’t make her write a report,” Parker said.
Then belatedly realized he should have protested the first part as well.
“So maybe she’s the one with the professor-grad student fantasy,” Evan mused. Putting that thought firmly into Parker’s mind. And imagination. Exactly where he did not want it.
High Heels and Haystacks: Billionaires in Blue Jeans, book two Page 8