by Lila Monroe
Chapter 4
“Well, it’s five thirty, which makes it officially dinner time. That means I should get cooking,” I say, pushing up my sleeves and eyeing the chafing dishes on the kitchen island. We need something a little simpler tonight; I can only eat so much Thai fusion cuisine. Ace shakes his head.
“Planner of executive Tibetan fundraisers or not, you’re off the clock, so put down that apron and relax,” he says.
“In this kitchen? Are you kidding? You can’t deprive me of this experience! It’s every amateur chef’s dream.”
Mom was always adamant about her daughters learning to cook to please their husbands. Ally rebelled, and I grumbled along with her behind Mom’s back, but truthfully I liked it. It was a task I could really lose myself in, and once I got past the basics I started modifying recipes, letting myself be a little more spontaneous—something completely out of character for me—and through my experimentation, I learned that imperfect results could still turn out great (and delicious), which gave me increasing confidence in the kitchen. Despite what Ally said, it had nothing to do with gender roles or playing housewife—cooking was fun for me. And I liked being good at it.
“All right.” Ace holds up his hands. “I’m not in a denying mood. But answer me this: can you cook while drinking?” He moves up behind me as I open the fridge to see what’s on hand. I pretend I don’t feel how close his body is, how woodsy-fresh he smells.
“That’s risky business, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take,” I say. Ace pours us two glasses of something red (and probably exquisite and expensive) while I start pulling apart his well-stocked fridge. Although I’ve been trained to make fancier fare, I’ve got simple tastes at heart, and I know exactly what I want right now. I tear apart high-end sirloin to roll into meatballs, get out some tomatoes for chopping, and start my great-great-grandmother’s famous marinara simmering. Mom doesn’t like me to make it, because it reminds her we’re a little bit Italian and Catholic. But she’s not here right now.
Thank God for that.
While I’m at the stove peeling garlic and chopping up tomatoes and onions, letting the olive oil sizzle in the bottom of the pot, Ace sits at the counter and we talk. There’s always something about cooking in the evening that relaxes me, and it’s nice to have someone to share it with. Especially someone who appreciates my skills.
“I don’t want to worry you, but that sauce smells so delicious I’m probably going to start eating some kitchen appliances,” Ace says. He points at a stainless steel electric mixer. “What is that thing? I’ve never seen it before. It dies first.”
“If you want to stave off starvation, you can always help me,” I say. Ace moves beside me, looking over my shoulder at the cutting board. His body is pressed flush against my back as he takes a wooden spoon, dips it into the sauce, and tastes.
“I’m very good at this,” he says, licking the spoon. I laugh as I hand him another onion to peel and chop. A lot of guys I know would complain and roll their eyes about having to do anything related to ‘women’s work,’ but he hops right to it. He knows exactly what he’s doing, too; his hands move expertly, the movements deft and sure.
“For someone who can’t identify an electric mixer you’re surprisingly good in the kitchen,” I say.
“I’m good in every room of the house.” He winks and slides the onion into the pot. I pretend to be very interested in sautéing the garlic.
“Seriously, though. Where I come from, the women cook and the men watch football. I’m impressed.”
“Well, my Dad was the type to disappear for months on end. One day he’d be there, the next, gone, then Saturday it’s all ‘What’s up, kid? I bought this Kawasaki for you even though you’re seven years old. And by bought, I mean stole.’” Ace’s tone is a mixture of nostalgia and irritation. “Mom’s biggest complaint was that he couldn’t take care of himself. So she taught me and my brother to cook, do our own laundry, everything. ‘I don’t care if you become stunt drivers or hardened criminals, but by God no woman is going to press your pants for you,’ she’d say. Guess it stuck.”
He ducks his head, suddenly quiet, and returns to chopping. A moment later he winces and shakes out his left hand. Due to the accident, undoubtedly.
That whole story explains his strange combination of easy charm and laser-like intensity. Gently, I take the chopping board away from him.
“I think you’ve done enough,” I say, smiling. “You should relax.”
“Only if you relax with me,” he says, handing me back my wine glass. His fingers brush mine as I take it. “That way, we both relax so much that we forget to turn off the stove and the kitchen goes up in flames. It’s my secret insurance scam.”
“You must trust me a lot, to make me party to your schemes.” I take another sip of wine and give him my most innocent Bambi eyes. That cracks him up, makes him throw his head back and laugh. Men normally don’t laugh at my jokes. Not because I’m not funny, but because I am. I like hearing Ace laugh. It’s a rich, sexy sound.
When everything’s ready, we sit at the kitchen island and pass the bowls back and forth. I even managed to whip up a passable Caesar salad with fresh cracked pepper and shaved parmesan. He nods, enthusiastically digging in.
“I haven’t had this in a while.”
“Pasta?”
“No. A home cooked meal. Usually it’s something on the go, or a party at Nobu, someone’s catered event.” He twirls the pasta expertly and takes a bite. No sauce to be wiped away; perfect. How is he even sexy when he eats? He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “I sound like an asshole, don’t I?”
I shake my head and help myself to more salad. “You sound busy. If you’re going to single handedly take over the musical world, you obviously have to play the game and eat the shrimp.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Single handedly. That’s how I got started on my path to world domination.” He shakes his left hand. “Single hand. Car accident. Get it? Don’t be afraid to laugh, I’m paying you extra for it.”
“I don’t think that was in the contract, actually.”
“You didn’t read the fine print. Always a mistake.” He pours me some more wine. It’s my second glass, which for me is quite a lot. Still, I drink it. My nerves need calming.
“I didn’t mean to bring it up. The accident, I mean.” And here’s why I don’t usually drink two glasses a night. My cheeks goes as red as the Chianti.
“I brought it up,” he says. He reaches across and touches my face for a second. “You blush easy. You don’t have to be nervous about making mistakes, party planner of the first order. Everything here is perfect. You’re good at what you do.” He studies me; his focus is intense again, problem-solving. “People don’t tell you that enough.”
I think of Mom’s loving but exasperated reaction when I told her I wanted more out of life than to work fundraisers for the Junior League. “How did you know?”
“Part of my business is reading people.” He folds his arms together, his muscles bunching. Idly, I think about running my hand over his arm. I stop thinking that.
“So this is business right now?” I laugh, trying to dispel some tension. He shrugs.
“Mixed with pleasure.”
I almost spill my wine. Time for a new topic.
“Have you got a boyfriend, Paige?” Okay, not that topic. I nearly choke.
“Excuse me?”
“Just curious if there’s anyone who’s worried that you’re up here alone in the vast Aspen wilderness.” His eyes meet mine, crackling with energy. He’s not just asking out of curiosity.
“No. No one for a while.” Not since Sergei, and that went up in pretty spectacular flames. “I don’t think I’m relationship material right now.”
Ace smiles. “I know that feeling. Just broke up with this girl, Patrice. Gorgeous, legs for days, but she wanted to commit. Settle down, you know? I’m not sure I’m that guy.” His voice is husky and low. “There’s too much beauty i
n the world.” Ah. A player, just like I thought. But Ace’s gaze is still practically setting me on fire. And after this weekend I’ll probably never see him again. Would it really be so bad if we just…
New topic, right now.
I clear my throat. “I know I’ve said it before, but this is the most gorgeous house.”
Ace laughs. “You haven’t even seen it. You’ve been sitting up here, thinking that’s all there is.” He starts counting off on his fingers. “We’ve got the screening room with reclining leather seats, if you’re in the mood for a movie night. An amazing wine cellar, which I know is right up your alley. Underground garage, too.”
“Why a second garage?”
“Because I’m Batman.” He says it with total seriousness.
“I thought you were Iron Man.”
“Batman is the clear DC analogue to Iron Man. Don’t destroy your geek cred, Paige.” He ticks off another finger. “Basement bowling alley.”
“Get out.” I put my wine down. “Out, into the snow. Right now, no coat on.”
“So feisty. The love of bowling is strong in you, I see. That settles it.” He stands up, takes the plates, and puts them in the sink. “Game on. You, me, now.”
I still half don’t believe him as we walk down the stairs, flipping lights as we go. But he’s telling the truth. We enter a three-lane room, our shoes echoing on the polished hardwood floors. There are even some giant neon bowling pins decorating the wall; they light up in flashes of purple and green as we change our shoes.
“Why the lights?” I ask, giggling.
“If you have the money for an indoor bowling alley, you have the money to get away with some questionable taste.” He picks up a twelve-pound ball and grins. “I can put the bumpers up, if you need.”
I narrow my eyes at him. So. He thinks I’m just a pretty face with no bowling skills. Well. He’s about to find out he’s messed with the wrong event coordinator.
There’s a jukebox in here as well, so we play music while we laugh our way through two games. The wine keeps flowing, a crisp Sauvignon Blanc this time, and I force Ace to play a bunch of Bon Jovi hits. He groans as ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’ starts up.
“I hate the eighties. I think I became a drummer partly to make up for the damage done by that entire decade.” He rolls a perfect strike. I take a minute to admire the slick line of his body as he throws. His muscles bunch and glide beneath his shirt.
“How can you say that? It’s the perfect music for a party.” I get ready, holding my ball and looking as dainty and non-threatening as possible.
“Well, you would know all about that.” He sidles up next to me. “What say we place a bet? Make a strike, and I have to pay up.”
“Oh, a forfeit? What is it?”
“I’ll think of something.” His hand brushes across my back. My heart speeds up. Is he trying to distract me? It won’t work.
Much.
I throw the ball. It goes down the lane straight and smooth, knocking over every pin at the end with a satisfying, thunderous crash. Maybe it’s the wine, but I can’t resist doing my little dance of ‘I am a bowling goddess.’ It involves some unladylike hip swinging. Mom would be giving me a reproachful eye right about now.
Remember, baby, let the gentleman win. Men don’t like it when they lose. It’s the law of nature.
My heart sinks a little to think about it. But Ace whoops and claps his hands.
“Winner!” He picks me up and swings me around in a circle. I shriek, kicking my legs in mock-horror. He brings me back down, flush against his body. His arms are around me, tight. My hands lie against his chest, which is sculpted and…very warm.
“I’d better pay up,” he says. His gaze holds me in place. His breathing is deep and slow, and mine starts to pick up. He tilts his head down toward me, his eyes burning into mine, and pulls me tighter against him. My breath catches in my throat as his lips graze mine, blazing heat. I gasp, but pull away fast, because I can’t—
Ace takes a step back, the heated light in his eyes dimming.
“Sorry,” he apologizes. “Guess I got carried away.”
“It’s fine,” I say, a little too forcefully. “Don’t worry about it.”
I watch him turn away and pick up his ball to take his next turn. Damn.
I don’t know what else to say. It’s just that all the years of failed relationships with men like Sergei has given me a suspicious heart, and a set of rules to protect it. Don’t go too fast. Don’t get too caught up in a moment, because you may end up regretting it. Don’t let your heart—or anything else—rule your head. You don’t want them to think you’re fast, do you? And what if Ace thinks I’m just another hook-up?
Would that be so bad, Paige? the saucy little devil on my left shoulder pipes up.
Maybe that little devil is right. I can’t mope about Sergei forever, I’ve never allowed myself the guilt-free pleasure of a one-night stand, and now, as luck would have it, there’s this perfect guy standing right in front of me, sexy and passionate and smart and who knows both the Marvel and DC universes, and there’s no one around to see us. Or hear us. No one else needs to know.
Ace’s ball slams into the pins too hard and slightly off-center, knocking down about half of them. As he waits for his ball to return, I take a step toward him.
“I think I know what I really want for my forfeit,” I say. Ace looks at me warily, but he’s intrigued. “I want you to make me a snow angel. Outside. Right now.”
“Well, outside is where the snow is. I appreciate thorough direction.” He cocks his head, that familiar grin back on his face where it belongs. I reach out to tug at his belt.
“And you need to do it in your underwear.” Feeling bold, I purposefully drop my gaze down to his belt, then look up at him and flash a wicked smile. “Only your underwear.” His eyes darken, and I hope-slash-fear I see a spark of desire there.
“You’re on.” And just like that, he pulls his shirt off and tosses it aside. I admire the contours of his body again, his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, the fine trail of hair leading down the center of his well-defined abs…it’s almost like his torso is mapping out my own private route to Blissville, population 2. He notices my ogling and smirks. “Feeling good about your forfeit so far?”
“I don’t think it’ll disappoint.” My voice comes out low and throaty.
Who is this person who’s decided to kidnap my body and speak with my voice? And why do I want to hang out with her, drink copious amounts of this spectacular wine, and get advanced-level flirting advice?
“Good, because there’s plenty more where this came from,” he teases, tugging his belt off. My pulse quickens, and I debate the merits of politely looking away versus studying his striptease with laser focus. But then his hands freeze at the top button of his jeans. “We should head upstairs before this goes any further,” Ace says. I gulp, and then realize he means going outside, into the snow. Right. Of course. Naturally.
I follow him up from the basement, prickling warmth running up and down my body as we head out the back door.
My breath clouds in the air. God, it’s so freezing, but so beautiful. The snow is pristine and perfect. Ace unbuttons his pants and slips out of them. Even in the dim glow from the outdoor lights, I can see that his legs are as well muscled as the rest of him. And even though his black boxer-briefs are too dark to give me a detailed view, I can’t help noticing the bulge of what I imagine must be a very well-made piece of equipment. I look away. My sigh comes out in a big cloud.
God, it’s too cold. Why did I think this would be fun? He’s going to end up with frostbite, and I’m going to have to call a helicopter to airlift us to a hospital to thaw him out. “You don’t actually have to do this,” I gasp. “It’s frigid.”
“You never take back a bowling forfeit. It’s the first rule of bowling club. That and you need to punch Brad Pitt in the face.” He falls backwards into the snow, cursing while making his angel, his arms and legs kicking
up powdery flakes.
My eyes are filling with tears, I’m laughing so much. In a minute, it’s done. He stands up and shakes off, staggering toward me with a proud smile.
“I think I need to warm up.” He’s shivering so hard that his teeth chatter.
“Of course. Come on, get your pants and let’s get inside.” I turn to run for the house, but he grabs my arm. He picks me up as I shriek.
“Not inside,” he growls.
I realize what he’s doing as he carries me toward the hot tub, but my protest dies on my lips as the cold of his skin seeps through my warm sweater. I owe him this. And if I’m honest with myself, I want it too. He leans over the steaming tub and I yelp as he drops me into it, fully clothed, and then climbs in after me.
Chapter 5
“This sweater’s going to be ruined now.” I peel it off, sopping wet, and throw it over the tub’s edge. Getting my soaked jeans off was even more of an effort. I had a little help though, with Ace tugging at the cuffs and me holding my underwear in place with an iron grip as my denim waistband threatened to drag my panties down.
“I promise, I can get you another sweater. I only destroy replaceable things.” Ace relaxes against the side of the spa, hands behind his head. He’s really enjoying this.
“Then you can feel free to break my car and my apartment and upgrade accordingly,” I say. He doesn’t answer, only stares at me. I’m…not exactly clothed. Now that my sweater is gone, my lace bra and panties are all that protect me from complete nudity. His gaze stays locked on my breasts. Self-conscious, I cross my arms. He smiles.
“You don’t have to be nervous.”
“I’m not.” Actually, I would prefer to be more nervous right now. Nervous would nudge at me and wheedle until we got out of the hot tub, picked up our clothes, and went back inside the house. To our own separate rooms. Alone.
But instead I let my arms relax, and lean against the wall of the tub.
“This probably isn’t how you expected the job to go,” he says.