by Mia Caldwell
“Pft, she’s not even vanilla. She’s the carton it came in. Or rum raisin. Who likes that?”
"Then you’re doing him a favor. Go home and shower, get cute. Give yourself enough time so you don’t have to walk too fast and get all sweaty. It’s perfect timing. You fill his head with how great you are and then you and me hit Aruba for a week, make him long for you."
Kiera knows guys. She claims to be too busy to be serious, but I think she just really likes dating and flirting and hooking up. And I, as I’ve mentioned, do not. Setting out to charm a man felt about as natural as flying. But I did what she said, just in case his plans changed and he came in for dinner.
And Walker never turned up.
I was still feeling hopeful when I took a meal up to Mrs. Alexander. She gave me the side-eye when I handed her the martini glass.
“What the hell is this crap?” she asked, peering at the emerald green liquid.
“It’s a wheatgrass cocktail.”
“You’d better be using that word correctly.”
I laughed really hard, that old lady cracked me up. “Yes, Mrs. Alexander, I am. I promise. It has wheatgrass, just like your son ordered, but I added some Cachaca, vodka, and lime juice. It’s after five, after all.”
She smiled broadly. “Atta girl.” She took a sip and looked up, “Not bad! That Brazilian-and-grass combo reminds me of my first gardener.” She shook her head wistfully. “Tastes just like him.”
I blushed like the prude I secretly fear I am and pretended I didn’t hear, busying myself with the tray of food. Once I had introduced it all to her, I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t bring up your lunch myself. I didn’t want to interrupt you when you had guests.”
She waved her hand in the air. “If you waited for that girl to shut her mouth, I’d starve to death, so I’m glad you sent it up.”
I kept an airy tone, oh, I’m just making small talk, ma’am. “Does she come by often?”
“More than I’d like.” Almost muttering to herself, she added, “what he sees in her I can’t imagine.”
Back in the kitchen, I decided to just pack up and get out. By the time I had cleaned up, it was late enough that it was clear Walker wasn’t coming. I wasn’t sure I’d even want to see him. I’d worn uncomfortable shoes for him and pinned up my hair in a twist more flattering than my usual work style. But my “I’m going to get him!” high from earlier was fading. What chance did I have against a golden goddess like Celia? And really? If he could love a woman like that, why would I even want him?
Chapter Four
There was no sign of Walker at lunch the next day, either, and by the time I came in to make dinner, I felt like myself again. This is just a job, do it and get on with the next one. Maybe I’d call him about the consulting job, maybe not. I could think about it in Aruba. Tomorrow night. I’d told Mrs. Alexander I’d come make her one last avocado smoothie tomorrow morning, but then I was off to the airport. A week in the Caribbean would wash away all the uncertainty and weirdness of these past few days.
I took the tray upstairs and was whistling as I came back into the kitchen to find Walker leaning against the counter, offering me a glass of red wine.
And all my cool resolve just dissolved. Like the connective tissue in my knees. What was it about him that his very presence made it hard to stand up, to breathe normally, to remember who I am?
“Did I make it in time for dinner again?” he asked, smiling that easy smile. His voice made my stomach get all fluttery, in addition to all the other symptoms. He was like a really strong virus.
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll make you a plate.” Figure it out, girl–what do you want here? Flirt back and get your heart broken? Play it cool and maybe blow the chance at a business deal? Surely I could just play at flirting, it doesn’t have to mean anything, right? Right?
I gave him the plate and took the wine glass. You know, I can’t tell much difference between a $15 bottle of wine and a $30 bottle. But I can tell when it’s a good wine. This was a good wine.
“This salad is amazing,” said Walker between bites. “What’s that unusual flavor?”
“Sorrel. I have a connection in West Virginia that does wild harvesting. In spring, she gets me morels–she has secret spots.”
I sat down across from him with my own plate. “The wine is very good, thank you.”
“It’s one of my favorites. I know some people wouldn’t drink red with fish, but I say good wine and good food always go together.”
I lifted my glass, “I’ll drink to that.” I watched him for a moment, he was chewing with his eyes closed, savoring the taste. Seriously, that’s like crack to a chef. When he opened his eyes, I darted my eyes to my plate, I didn’t want to be caught staring. When I looked up, he was watching me. It was getting hard to eat when my stomach was so full of butterflies.
Talking, though, I can always do that.
“So, did you mom never cook when you were a kid, even before you got rich?”
“Oh, we’ve always been rich,” he said with a crooked smile. “My mother’s father came from Italy a wealthy man. He’d had a falling out with his brother–they were just beginning to industrialize baking there and the Rossi brothers couldn’t agree on how to run things. So Salvatore packed up his brand new bride and moved to America to open his own factory. He was pretty successful right away, but when he launched Tiny Tina–” Walker gestured toward the stairs. “–named after my own mother, his little girl, Christina, that’s when he got really rich.”
When I realized that the rosy cheeked little girl on the snack cake box was the foul-mouthed old woman upstairs, I nearly choked. My wine went down the wrong way and I started sputtering. I tried to wave him away while I coughed, but Walker jumped up to get me some water and stroked my back while I drank it. It was a strangely intimate gesture, but I was too busy figuring out how to breathe again to really respond. When I was back to just clearing my throat a little, he still stood there beside my chair, his hand on my back. I felt like all of my focus was on that hand-shaped patch of skin, like there should be visible light radiating out from his fingertips. Get it together. Control. I shifted my weight a little and he sat back down. There was an empty spot on my back.
“That’s your mom on the Tiny Tina box?”
Walker laughed. “Yeah, it was a long time ago. She’s always hated that picture. Hated being associated with the brand. Hated being called ‘Snack Cake’ at boarding school.” He took another drink of the wine and shrugged. “But she never hated the money it brought in. And when she married my dad, she didn’t object to his taking the reins from her father.”
“Is your dad still living?”
He shook his head and a lock of dark brown hair fell across his forehead. I suddenly felt like I could see what he’d looked like as a little boy. “No, he died about five years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. How about you? Parents still living?”
“My mom is. I honestly have no idea about my dad. He cut out when my little brother was two. I think my mom might know where he is, but I never wanted to insult her by seeming to care.” I drained my wine glass and set it down.
Walker poured more into it, saying, “Stay and have more wine with me. I’ll have my car take you home tonight and bring you back in the morning.”
The wine I’d already had and his sparkling eyes made it hard to resist. I lifted the glass and took a sip. “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste. But you never answered my question from earlier–did your mom ever cook at all?”
“Mm, you’re dogged, I like it. No, she never did. We always had housekeepers that cooked. Now she just eats out. One of the housekeepers used to make pudding from scratch and would let me eat it while it was still warm…” His voice trailed off and his eyes looked far away for a moment. “Never liked it any other way, but oh, man, I can almost taste it.”
“Let’s make some.”
“What? Now? Do you have the ingredients?
Do you have a recipe?”
He was so genuinely pleased by the idea that it made me laugh. “Yes, Walker, pudding is easy. I’m pretty sure you don’t get out of cooking school without mastering simple custards. And I have the ingredients here from the other food I was making. Come on. I’ll teach you.”
This is the part in the rom-com where there’s a musical montage of the couple laughing and cooking together. I gave him the whisk and he was too fast, getting milk droplets all over the stove. He tried to convince me he knew how to juggle and ended up cleaning egg off the floor. When we stood side by side at the stove, I could feel the heat between our shoulders, like two magnets trying to pull together.
“Want me to stir for a while?” he asked.
“No, I want there to be enough left in the pan to eat.”
“Good point,” he said, taking a drink.
“Wait a minute, was this your plan all along? Appear utterly incompetent so I do all the work and then you just eat the pudding?”
“Do I seem like a man who pretends to be bad at things? I assure you, I am taking this all in and by the time you get back from Aruba, I’ll be able to make you pudding so good you’ll cry.”
“Oh, will you be having me back to cook for your mom some more?” I asked with a smile.
He leaned in just a bit, fixed me with that look of his. “I was hoping to cook for you in my own kitchen.”
Courage from the wine let me say, “Will Celia be there too?”
He stepped back again, his expression looked like I’d slapped him. “Oh,” he said. “Wow.”
“Yeah. She came by yesterday. Looking for Pookie.”
He took a deep breath and rolled his eyes at the name. “Celia’s…been around forever. Our parents belonged to the same club. She and I dated some, but we aren’t together. She’s no more than a friend to me.”
I narrowed my eyes. “A friend with benefits?”
His hand went to the back of his neck in that universal guy symbol of “oh man you got me.” “Um, she has been.”
There was no sound for a while but the metal-on-metal of the whisk in the pan, the hiss of the gas from the stove.
“Look, Andrea,” he said, stepping in again, “I’m pretty into you, if you can’t tell. But I’m 32 years old, I’ve had other girlfriends. That doesn’t change the fact that it is you that I’m interested in right now.”
My heart was hammering in my chest. I was 24 and I’d had other boyfriends. But not a lot, and not for long. And never anyone like Walker. I just nodded. “Okay,” I said.
I switched off the burner and fished the vanilla bean out of the pudding, wiping it clean as I pulled it out. Walker grabbed my hand before I could wipe it off and lifted it to his lips. He sucked the custard from my index finger, pulling hard with his tongue. I wasn’t sure how I was going to stay standing. It was like there was a direct connection from my finger to the tingle down below. If his mouth felt that good on my fingertip…
But I played it cool. “I see you like vanilla,” I said with a smile.
He held my eyes in his gaze as he lowered my hand, keeping hold of it. “I do. But that’s not all I like. I’m more concerned with the quality of the product than its flavor.”
Smooth.
“And how is the quality?” I asked.
“Delicious and creamy,” he replied, his eyebrows raising just enough to make me wonder if he meant the pudding or me or both.
“Get some bowls,” I said, my voice far huskier than it had ever been before when I’d said that phrase. I poured the rich custard into the bowls, asking, “Are you sure you don’t want to let it firm up in the fridge?”
“No,” he replied, his voice still down in his sexy-beast register. “I like it warm and…yielding.”
“Well, be careful you don’t burn your tongue,” I purred.
He paused and then smiled. “I don’t think I know what that actually means.”
“Me either, but I thought it sounded sexy. Let’s pretend I was only talking about the pudding, in which case just stir it a bit to cool it off.”
He laughed and I decided to laugh with him instead of being mortified by my innuendo-fail.
“You’re so real, Andrea. It’s refreshing.”
My sharp-tongued self wanted to say, “Have you been dating holograms or robots?” and my sexy self wanted to say, “Maybe you should find out how real,” (yeah, I don’t know what that means either, remember what I said about being a little awkward?) and my romantic self wanted to just swoon. Maybe an “Oh, Walker!”
I carried our bowls over to the table. It’s nice to have a task when you’re flustered…
“I can see I’m making you a little uncomfortable,” Walker said, sitting down. “Let’s back this up. So, do your friends call you Andi?”
I smiled. The fact that he knew to pull back a little…well, it made my butterflies even worse, but at least the panic subsided a little.
“Actually,” I said, stirring my pudding, “my mother pronounced my name on-DRAY-uh. She named me after the most boring character on Beverly Hills 90210, if you can believe it.”
“Why didn’t you correct me? And that’s hilarious.”
“Oh, I stopped correcting people when I was maybe ten or so. She just thought that name was so pretty and she’d never known anyone named Andrea, so she didn’t know there were two ways to say it. My friend Kiera calls me Dre. And then sometimes Doc because she’s hilarious.”
Walker laughed, “I like it. Doc.”
I shook my head, “Uh-uh, pal, that’s for Kiera only. Sucking on my finger doesn’t give you nickname rights.”
“On-DRAY-uh.”
“And you can’t get on my mom’s good side if she’s not even here. What about you? Is Walker a family name?”
“I wish I could say that it was. No, I’m named after George Bush. The father. H.W, not G.W.”
“Really? I’m pretty sure my mama spat anytime she had to say his name.”
He smiled, “I’ve only had two glasses of wine, so I’m not ready for a political discussion, but I’ll say I can think of Presidents I’d rather have been named for. Of course, he was only veep when I was born. My father’s family was from Maine. Old family friends. Of course, most people think I was named after the Chuck Norris character.”
“It does make you seem pretty badass.”
“I’ve always said I’m just glad I got the Walker and not the Herbert.”
“No kidding. And I guess I should be glad she didn’t watch daytime soaps. Who knows what name I’d have gotten. But my brother David is glad he didn’t get Brendon or Dylan like every other boy born in 1990.” At his blank look I added, “They were also characters on 90210.”
“Ah!” His spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl as he got the last bits of pudding out. “This was even better than I remembered. I want to lick the bowl.”
“It’s your mom’s house, go ahead.”
“Are you trying to be a bad influence? Here, I’ll take your bowl to the dishwasher. Let’s go sit in the living room, it’s more comfortable.”
The old townhouse had been opened up at some point to create an airier floorplan than was originally built. I walked back to the cozy living room that joined the kitchen space on one side. The furniture looked showroom-new, as if no one ever sat on it. I settled back onto down pillows and soft fabric. Nicer than my futon, for sure.
Walker came in carrying the wine bottle. “Looks like there’s one more glass in here for you,” he said.
What the hell, right?
He emptied the bottle into my glass and set the bottle down before settling beside me on the couch.
“Look,” he said, uh-oh, serious tone. “I don’t have time to drag this part out, as fun as it is. I like you. I’m attracted to you. I’d like to get to know you better and not just as a fantastic cook. If I’m not your type, just tell me and I’ll back off. Reluctantly, but I’ll back off. Well, I’ll probably try to convince you first, which would totally win
you over and then I wouldn’t have to back off…” He smiled and rubbed his chin as if in thought. “Well, I guess really, I just need to know if I need to block out some time to win you over or whether I can just kiss you now.”
Wow.
I took a swig from my glass. “I think I’m ready now,” I said, totally unsure if I really knew what it meant to be ready.
He gently took the glass from my hand and set it on the coffee table. No coaster. Rich boy. Putting his finger under my chin, he pulled me in and his lips met mine.
I’ve had a few first kisses. They’ve ranged from deeply awkward to pretty nice. But now I had something quite off the charts. His mouth was soft, but with an urgency. It wasn’t tender, it was insistent. It was the kiss version of that look he’d been giving me.
When my lips parted, his tongue found mine and claimed it. I couldn’t imagine the other guys I’d dated being able to kiss with such confidence. As I melted against him, he pulled me in closer still. My breasts were pressed against his chest, firm under that fine cotton. As I ran my hands over his back, I could feel the muscles outlined, feel the strength in his body.
He tasted of fine wine and homemade pudding, he smelled of spice and the outdoors. I didn’t give another thought to how little time I had for dating. I forgot all about Celia. I didn’t even think about how I still needed to finish packing for vacation. All my thoughts were of Walker, how it felt to be in his arms.
The hand on my back pulled my shirt out of the waistband of my skirt. I felt his hand on the bare skin of my back and sank more into his chest. My hand was in his hair, so thick and silky. With my other hand, I pulled his shirt up, too, let my hand search beneath the hem, find the hard muscles of his back.
I could hardly breathe. My heart was pounding. I’d never felt this desperate to have a man. To be thrown down on the sofa and taken. Without breaking away from the kiss, Walker pulled at the hem of my shirt, lifting it. I pulled away and lifted my arms to let it lift over my head.
Thank heaven I put on the pretty bra.