I tilt my head to one side to give him better access. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of him touching me. I don’t feel smothered by him, only loved.
Michael moves around to the same side of the counter as Chef Eric. He wraps an apron around his waist and grabs a frying pan that he waves in my direction. “Montgomery won’t bother you anymore.”
“Thank you both. For everything.”
Both men wave off my thanks and focus on making the meal. They’ve pulled out half of what was in the pantry and cleaned out the fridge. The meal is clearly going to be for all of us, not just Damien and I. Watching them work together in the kitchen is like a chaotic symphony.
Damien whispers in my ear, “We need to talk.”
“I know. I’m sorry . . .” Before I can finish apologizing, he turns me by my shoulders and kisses me, his hands pressing me close. Breathless, I try to remember what I was going to say, but my mind is in the gutter as his hard erection presses into me. My stomach growls loudly.
His lips curve into a smile. “Let’s eat before I change my mind and decide I can’t wait to have you again.” Before he loosens his hold, he adds, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I should have been.”
I raise a hand to his cheek. This man is real, and he cares. Damien’s actions prove I’m not unlovable, contrary to Clayton’s claims. “You’re here now.” I press my lips to his and give him a scorching kiss, a promise of what I have planned for when we return to my room. I slowly untangle myself from his arms, spinning around to find both Michael and Chef Eric pretending not to stare. They grin from ear to ear.
Chef Eric arranges four plates artfully on his arm and walks out to the adjoining dining area. Michael follows with four glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice and what looks like a bottle of champagne tucked under his arm. Damien grabs my hand and a basket of biscuits. How in the world had Chef Eric baked biscuits that quickly?
Michael pulls out a chair for me, and Damien gives me a quick squeeze before letting go and taking the seat next to me. Pushing in my chair, I stretch out my legs in search of his. I brush the top of my foot along the back of his calf.
His attention flickers between Chef Eric and Michael, and then he gives his head a slight shake. Damien is hiding something from me. The pain of being excluded and the one on the outside pierces through my chest. I dropped my gaze to my plate. When his warm hand rests on my thigh, I jump.
Damien leans in closer. “Is everything okay?”
“Umm. Yeah. Sure.” I glance around the table. All three men look at me with concern. “I’m sure I’ll be fine once I have some food in me.”
Michael smiles and picks up his fork. “Here’s to . . .” He flinches. “Ow.” Glaring at Damien, he asks, “Why did you kick me?”
I look over at Damien, and his cheeks are flushed. Out of embarrassment or anger, I’m not sure. I ask, “Why did you kick him?”
“Because I haven’t told you I love you or asked you yet. He was so busy eyeing the damn bacon he didn’t see me give him the message to keep his big mouth shut.” His words come out in one long breath. Did he just tell me he loved me? He’s normally so succinct. I blink twice to decipher the extra-long sentence. “What haven’t you asked me?”
He gives me a sheepish look so uncharacteristic of him I know I should let the topic slide.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows a mouth full of food. “I was going to tell you I love you, but in a more private setting. . .” He coughs and clears his throat before continuing. “But I got distracted, and then this . . .” Damien points at Michael, who has a lopsided grin and no trace of remorse on his face.
“Hey. Don’t blame me for your guilty mind.” He raises his glass in the air. “I was going to say . . . here’s to new beginnings.”
Damien rolls his eyes. “Sorry.”
I sneak a glance at him and read his lips as he mouths, “I love you.”
“Ahem.” Michael waves his glass that’s still up in the air.
After we all clink our glasses, we give a cheers to new beginnings.
Epilogue
Damien
All I remember from seventh grade was I had an enormous crush on a girl named Ellie, who kindly rejected me for a jock named Ben. I certainly don’t remember who my English-lit teacher was, but I’m pretty sure every kid in the room will remember Lydia and the day Christina Hannover, aka Irene Gilliard—now Crestwater—came to talk to them about their stories. After Irene’s first visit to Lydia’s class, she established a mentor program for one kid in her class each school year. The idea nailed every aspect of what I’d intended to accomplish with the starving artist gallery, except it was a thousand times better. In the first week of school each year, Irene pays a visit. She explains how the mentorship works and how she will select the lucky person to receive her help in creating their very own book to be released by Harwood Publishing, my little contribution to the scholarship program and my excuse to be here today.
“This year’s winner is . . .” Irene picks up the mock cover page drawn by the lucky student to be her mentee for the year and turns it for the entire class to see. “Boyd Gower.”
Twenty-plus heads swivel to the back row, and a collective what echoes through the room. The boy’s face flushes red, and he looks diagonally at his right to the only girl in the room who isn’t staring at him. He slips lower into his chair. “Thanks, but it’s really Zoey’s story. I just drew the cover.”
The kids’ heads whip to the dark-haired girl who’s staring at Boyd as if she wants to kill him for outing her. I turn my attention back to Irene, who as I’d guessed has an I told you so look on her pretty features. When we went through this year’s entries, she immediately picked up on the differences between the style of the illustrator and the penmanship of the story outline. It wasn’t the strongest storyline or the best cover design, which is typically what I voted for when we decided upon the winners. Irene wouldn’t be swayed. She said she felt it in her bones—there was more to the story presented to us.
Irene walks down the aisle to stand before the girl’s desk. “Zoey, is this your story outline?”
The girl nods, and the boy behind her and next to Boyd says, “Man, when the hell did you start hanging out with her?”
Oh, I remember how middle-school cliques suck, and apparently, things haven’t changed.
Irene walks back to the front. “Lydia, is it okay if I speak with Boyd and Zoey outside?”
My sister, who is never at a loss for words, nods her head. “Boyd and Zoey, you may be excused.” I raise my hand, and Lydia adds, “Yes, you too, Mr. Crestwater.”
I follow the two kids into the hall where Irene paces back and forth.
Boyd whispers to Zoey, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have entered it, but it’s a good story.”
“How the hell did you get it, anyway? I threw it in the trash at home.” Zoey stops and rounds on the poor boy. “Do you even live near me?”
It’s like a scene right out of one of Irene’s books except Zoey would also have steam coming from her ears.
“Two miles.” Boyd jams his hands into his front pockets.
“Okay, if you live two miles from me, how did you get your hands on my outline?”
“I was out running, saw it blowing across the road, and picked it up.” He shrugs. I used to do that a lot around girls, too, especially the ones I liked.
“But how did you guess it was mine?”
“I’ve known you since second grade, and I’ve sat next to you—I don’t know—a thousand times or so over the years. I know your handwriting like I know my own.”
“Seriously. We haven’t spoken a word to each other since the fourth grade. What were you thinking, submitting my story?”
Yep, this whole situation is a real-life scene from one of Irene’s books. The trials and tribulations of middle school and the classic boy-loves-girl story. I lengthen my stride and reach Irene before the students do.
Whirling to face me, wo
rry lines appear on her forehead. “Do you think I could make it work? Two kids instead of just one?” she asks.
“You can if you want to.” I reach out to tuck her hair behind her ear. “What can I do to help?”
She puckers her lips, which she knows drives me wild. I could easily lean forward and press her up against the lockers. Not the right time. I rein in my imagination and the need to bury myself deep inside her in the hallway of a freaking middle school. I blink. Irene’s glossy-pink, kissable lips are moving. Why is she talking and not wrapped up in my arms? I blink again to clear the totally inappropriate images of me plowing into her.
“This might not be the right year to take on the challenge. What was I thinking?”
What the hell is she talking about? Now that she’s distanced herself from her rotten parents and set boundaries for her mom, Irene hardly ever expresses self-doubt. She’s amazing and a master multitasker. I’d love to kiss the frown from Irene’s brow, but we’re not alone, and with my experiencing a mini-boner in my pants, the odds I’ll stop at a kiss are low. I clear my throat and my dirty mind. “It’s not really different from last year, and that was a smashing success.”
Zoey stares up at me. “Who says smashing?”
Irene answers, “He has the vocab of a man from the 1800s. But my husband is right.”
“Your husband?!” The two kids say in unison, both sets of eyes wide and switching back and forth between Irene and me.
Boyd nudges me in the ribs and whispers, “How did a suit like you get a woman like Ms. Hannover?”
“I got lucky . . .” is all I get out before Irene cuts me off with a look I’ve learned the hard way means shut up.
She huffs and turns to face the kids. “I will admit it is a challenge at times to work with someone who is vastly different from yourself, but it is possible. Mr. Crestwater is no creative, but he has a soft spot for the arts.”
A challenge! What the hell? I’m a dream to work with since we got together—ask any of my employees. I’m about to ask Irene to clarify when Zoey’s snicker reaches my ears, and I look down to see her eyes flickering to the bulge in my pants and then to Boyd. She giggles. “I wouldn’t say soft, but he definitely has a thing for artists.”
The two kids share a glance, and the sparks that fly are flammable.
Clearly flustered, Irene waves a hand between Zoey and Boyd. “If you two are willing to complete the book together and agree to a shortened timeline, I’m willing to mentor you both.”
Zoey twists her hair and sticks a pen through it.
Boyd groans. “Oh no.” He leans in to tell me, “When she puts her hair into a bun, it means she’s serious.” I smile down at him. This boy has it bad for Zoey if he knows all her nuances.
“How long exactly would I be stuck with him?” Zoey juts her thumb in Boyd’s general direction.
“Hmm. I’ve got about another seven months. If the two of you are committed, we could get it done in five.”
I focus on Irene, but she ignores me. Five months. It took the whole school year to get last year’s book ready for publishing. What the hell does she mean she has only another seven months? Wait. She went to the doctor a week ago. Fuck, is she sick? And she said she needed to talk to me after we were done at the school. A trickle of sweat runs down my spine.
Boyd rocks back on his heels and says, “Umm. I’m sorry, Ms. Hannover, but I can’t commit to anything. I already have soccer and cross-country practices, and I’m on the ski team during the winter.”
Irene spreads her hands out wide, palms up. “I’m sorry, but for the book to work, it would require both of you to participate.”
The two kids have a quick, silent conversation. A thin-lipped Zoey says, “Forget it.” She whirls around and stomps back to class, leaving Boyd behind.
With a sad expression, he asks, “How much time do you think I’d need to commit to the project?”
“If you already have other commitments, it’s okay to say no. I’ll just pick another winner.” Irene’s smile is genuine, but the lopsided tilt of her lips tells me she’s up to something.
“No! Zoey needs this.” Boyd runs a hand through his hair, which falls right back into place. “I need to help her.”
“Based on last year, it will require a solid three hours a week of the two of you working together and probably another two individually. If you and Zoey can work out a schedule based on that, I’ll arrange my schedule to accommodate yours. Deal?”
Irene will be crushed if the boy says no. I almost pull him aside and tell him if he cares for Zoey, he’ll figure out a way. I take a deep breath. This isn’t within my control, and the kid isn’t an employee.
“Five hours a week for five months.” Boyd takes a moment more and nods. “I’ll talk to Zoey and make it happen. Can I let Mrs. Hayward know for sure tomorrow?”
It’s weird to hear my sister called by her married name. Irene nods. “That will work. You are a very talented artist.”
“Thanks.” Boyd shrugs and looks down before adding, “My parents think it’s a waste of time.”
He’d mentioned several activities that would look impressive on a college application. Or was it so he could apply for a scholarship? I can’t help myself and butt in. “I’d be happy to talk to your parents. You know . . . to explain the royalties you and Zoey will receive.”
“Royalties?”
Irene laughs. “Not kings and queens. Money. Once your story releases, you two will be entitled to money from the sale of the book.”
“Really?”
His enthusiasm confirms my suspicion his parents would be on board if there was money involved. I put my arm around the boy’s shoulders, and we head back to the classroom. “Yeah, really. I hope you can convince Zoey. I think the two of you will create something special together.” I open the door for Boyd.
He mutters, “I sure hope we make enough so Zoey can go to college with me.”
I let the door close. Damn, I haven’t misjudged a person in a long time. The kid has character. I’m going to do everything I can to help him. After all, if a suit like me can get the girl of my dreams, this boy deserves every fighting chance to get his, too.
I hope you enjoyed Two for Dinner. Up next in the Steam and Giggles Series - HeartBreaker Next Door.
About the Author
Rachel A. Smith is a romance addict. She’ll watch any movie and read all the books that have romance in it. She offers readers stories that are filled with seduction between the sheets: page-turning contemporary romances that make you laugh, sigh, and want more.
When Rachel isn’t writing she loves to read and spend time with the family. You will often find her with her Kindle, by the pool during the summer, or on the side-lines of the soccer field in the spring and fall or curled up on the couch during the winter months.
She currently lives in Colorado with her extremely understanding husband and their two very supportive children.
Visit Rachel A. Smith’s website www.rachelannsmith.com and signup for her newsletter to receive updates on new releases and monthly giveaways.
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