by Cindi Madsen
This tank top didn’t do a very good job of hiding the fact that I didn’t have a bra on, though, so I was going to have to go grab one of my comfier, less padded bras as soon as I added the rice to the water, which was just about to boil.
Maybe the boss persona fails me, but I’m nailing this cooking thing.
As if the universe heard that and wanted to prove me wrong, grease splattered me, right as the pot not only boiled but spewed water onto the stove top.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I grabbed a paper towel, and in spite of being careful about not wiping the actual burner, heat flared through my palm. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”
I twisted to the sink and poured cold water on my right hand while using the other to turn down the burner. Since my left hand wasn’t used to being in charge, it took two tries to lower the temperature instead of raising it.
I dumped the measured-out rice in the pot of water that’d finally calmed down, and then lifted my hand to see if any blisters had formed.
The door swung open, and Liam stepped inside. He dropped his gym bag and surveyed the kitchen with arched eyebrows.
“I’m making dinner,” I said, protectively curling my fist against my chest.
“I see that. What happened to your hand?”
“I just burned it a little.”
He motioned with his fingers, as if I could simply hand it over, and I lowered my eyebrows.
“You want me to hand you my hand?”
“Yes,” he said, as if that’d made sense.
“It’s okay. I think.” I peeked at it. Sort of red, but I didn’t see any bubbles, which was good because injuries and blood made me squeamish. When it came to movies, I could tell myself it was fake, but real life was another story. Sometimes I had to look away from Liam’s fights. I tried to filter the gore by peeking through my fingers, another reason I needed them to be okay.
Liam gently uncurled my fingers and studied my palm. He guided it back under the stream of cool water. I was about to tell him I’d already done that, but something about the way he did it actually made it feel better.
“How’d work go?” he asked.
The oxygen leaked out of my lungs as his eyes met mine, and I licked my lips, trying to cover my reaction. “Are you asking because you think I need a distraction or because you’re psychic?”
“I guess that answers my question. The fact that you’re cooking hinted that something was up.”
“Hey, I cook. Sometimes.”
His skepticism showed in the press of his lips.
“You don’t know everything about me,” I said. Was dizziness setting in because of the way he dragged his thumb over my skin or from the heat cooking in the tiny kitchen caused? I’m going to say the heat. Definitely the heat.
“Ah, but I do.” He dragged the pad of his thumb over my palm again, and I had to cling that much harder to my it’s hot in here excuse. “New project means you’re upset. Otherwise you’d be on the couch reading, probably curled up with your cat.”
Fine. Maybe he knew most everything about me. Better than anyone else, at that. Man, I really should’ve curled up on the couch with George and a book. If only my spinning thoughts would’ve allowed for that. “I’m learning new skills,” I said, and then I sighed, figuring I might as well spit it out now, because there was no way I wouldn’t end up blabbering to him about it. “To make up for my failure to learn how to be a tough boss.”
He tilted his head. “One bad day doesn’t mean you’ve failed, Chels.”
“After not having it forever, I couldn’t pass up my favorite coffee shop—their caramel macchiato is so much better than anywhere else. And I just went to take one last sip before heading into the building, but I had to tip it up to get past the foam and whipped cream, and then it all came out at once and spilled down my shirt. I had coffee boob.”
His eyes dipped, and it hit me that I’d never grabbed that bra. I tried not to be self-conscious, but the big inhale and exhale sent my chest rising and falling. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I could feel my nipples hardening, refusing to take my same stand on the just-friends thing with Liam now that he was standing so close, his masculine, soapy-fresh scent invading my senses.
He swallowed and slowly lifted his gaze to mine. For a weird beat, we simply looked at each other. The air crackled, making me think that maybe I wasn’t the only one feeling the occasional pull.
As the sizzling and popping intensified, I realized that wasn’t our chemistry—it was dinner. I spun toward the stove and did some more swearing. The bottom of the chicken and squash was black, the top a mix of raw chicken and crunchy, uncooked green and yellow.
I quickly scraped it from the skillet and flipped it, and Liam reached over me, lifting the pot of rice off the burner as it began spewing frothy water again.
I glanced back at him, expecting disappointment, the kind my family gave me when this sort of thing happened—usually thanks to the fact that I’d gotten sucked into a book—but amusement lit his features instead. He bumped me over with his hip. “No worries, it’s all salvageable.”
“You go using words like ‘salvageable,’ and I’ll worry that you don’t need your own personal dictionary anymore.”
His fingertips brushed my lower back. “I’ll always need my personal dictionary. Like for instance, what’s the word for a girl who surprises you with a raw and burned dinner?”
“Culinary goddess.”
Liam’s low laughter skated across my skin and settled deep in my core.
I shook my head as I pivoted and leaned against the counter, giving him full access to the stove—not like I had a clue how to fix it. “Probably more like ‘hot mess.’ But at least I know I’m a hot mess.”
“As long as you know,” he said, one corner of his mouth kicking up.
I twisted the bottom of my shirt in my fingers, and Liam jerked back his hand with a curse, the handle of the pan doing a 180. He stuck a finger in his mouth and sucked on it. It would’ve been funny if I didn’t feel so responsible for him having to clean up my mess. Or if I didn’t suddenly want to take over sucking his finger for him.
Whoa there, thoughts. There was inappropriate and then there was…whatever that was. Usually I had all the words, and I couldn’t think of one. What I needed to do was stop worrying about finding the right word and figure out how to stop thinking about anything involving his mouth.
His finger came out from between his lips with a pop, and on autopilot I stepped forward, took his hand, and examined it the way he’d examined mine. “This means we can be hot messes together, right?”
Liam didn’t say anything, and I peered up at him to find him doing his best impression of a stone statue.
“Liam? Are you okay?”
Chapter Eight
Liam
Was I okay? Well, I couldn’t stop staring at my best friend’s breasts, so I wasn’t sure that was okay. And I’d planned on averting my eyes yet again, but then she’d twisted her shirt, making it go tighter across her chest, and even though it was sweltering in here, apparently one part of her was cold.
Don’t think about that. Or how nice it feels for her to drag her finger over yours.
I cleared my throat. “I’m fine. I’m just gonna…” I gestured to the pan of blackened food I’d nearly dumped. Here I’d asked Chelsea to stay with me so I could watch over and protect her, and if I didn’t get my head right, she might need protection from me.
That’s it. I’ve really gotta get laid. My best friend wasn’t an option, but this weekend—or hell, maybe tonight—I was going to need to take the edge off before I did something stupid. I’d call Finn and have him meet me at the Fainting Goat, the bar where fighters often hung out. He was a good wingman, and he was even better at sensing which girls were down for temporary.
The scent of charred food hit me, and I quickly moved everything from the burners and shut them off before the fire alarms started blaring. The fact that they hadn’t gone off made me wonder if they ac
tually worked.
Chelsea waved a hand through the smoky air. “I’ll open a window.” She circled the apartment, throwing wide the living room window and the sliding glass door that led out to a tiny balcony. Then she disappeared down the hallway that led to our bedrooms. When she returned, she had a bra on, something I probably shouldn’t have noticed but would hopefully prevent me from thinking about her breasts and how much I wanted to tug down the fabric and take a better look.
Or maybe the images from earlier would keep on flashing through my mind on an endless loop. Warm-up pants weren’t exactly great at concealing things downstairs, and if I didn’t get my thoughts under control, it’d be hard for her not to notice my untimely arousal.
Her front brushed my back as she leaned around me and checked out the food, and I had to think about the split-open gashes I’d seen through the years. Oozing head wounds. That burst of pain that accompanies being punched in the nose.
Holy shit, I can feel her curves and the heat coming off her body.
“Should we dump it?” she asked.
Five, four, three… I blew out my breath, glad I had practice at lowering my heart rate within a matter of seconds. “Nah. We can pick out the good parts.” Basically, we were going to have plain rice for dinner.
A few more seconds and I was mostly under control again.
The second we sat down to eat, George hopped up on the couch and wiggled between us. He sniffed the food, then turned up his nose, leaped off the couch, and went to his food bowl near the patio door.
I tried to bite back my laugh. And failed.
Chelsea gave me a ridiculously cute scowl—no wonder she had trouble pulling off hard-ass boss at work. Even when she tried to give off the mad vibe, she radiated warmth. “Just hush up and eat your food.”
Stirring the mixture with my fork only revealed more burned chicken and things formerly known as vegetables. “Cruel and unusual punishment. Maybe you should try cooking dinner for the employees you’re training. The threat of that torture, and they’ll jump to do anything you ask.”
Chelsea shoved me, but she snorted a laugh. “I was trying to thank you for your help and for letting me stay here.”
“For future reference, I take cash, Visa, MasterCard…”
She shook her head as she poked at her dinner with her fork, trying to unearth the edible bits. She stuck a chunk of squash in her mouth and fought a gag.
I shoveled a bite into my mouth in solidarity. Or possibly masochism. “I appreciate you trying to take care of me. You don’t need to, though.”
“When I tried to tell you the same thing, you insisted you were going to anyway, so I’m going to point that right back at you. Only I promise I’ll take care of you in other ways besides cooking.”
Why, why did my mind automatically turn that dirty?
Sure, she had a bra on now, but those tiny shorts left a whole lot of leg on display. My gaze snagged on the large spot of purple marring her shin. “Dang, what’s with the giant bruise? You been in the cage recently?”
“I live life to the fullest. I see an adventure and I dive right in.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What? Is that so hard to believe?” I continued to give her my hard stare, and she slumped back against the armrest. “Okay, I rammed into a step stool, which then bumped into the journal display the other day when we were in the bookstore. Did you, uh, see that part?”
“Just the aftermath with the books on the floor. I was about to go in for an assist, but you grinded it out.”
“Not so sure about that. It’s not like Kevin’s texted, and yeah, I could be assertive and text him, but I did the assertive thing already. I asked him out and gave him my number, so I think he should work for it a little.”
“Agreed,” I said. I thought he should work for it a lot. Or not at all, because there was no way he deserved her, and since she seemed sad he hadn’t texted, now I wanted to kick his ass even more—the guy couldn’t win with me. Either way I’d dislike him, but if he made her happy, I’d try to deal.
“Like, have some balls and text me already.”
“Right.” My attention drifted to that bruise again, and I couldn’t resist reaching out and running my finger across her shin. Her skin was so smooth and soft, and I wanted to run my hand higher. Up over her knee, up her thigh. Then I’d trace my fingers over the place where those tiny shorts ended, dip underneath the material, and…
Fuck. Now I’m getting hard all over again. The guy from the bookstore needed some balls, and I needed to not have any. Or for someone else to play with them for a while. I jerked my hand off her leg and pushed to my feet—I had to get out of here before I did something I’d later regret. “I’m headed to the bar. With Finn.”
“Oh. Okay.”
A twinge in my gut tugged at me. I should invite her, but then I’d never end up taking the edge off, and if I was going to survive the next month or so, I’d better handle my shit.
“I had a bad day, so I was just going to watch a comfort movie,” she said. “I thought I’d get to multitask and guilt you into watching it, but lucky for me, George loves chick flicks.”
I glanced at the cat. “Suddenly I’m appreciating George a whole lot more.”
As if he wanted to prove how little my approval mattered to him, he heaved up a slimy fur ball. Two inches to the left and it would’ve hit the hardwood floor instead of the rug, but he’d aimed for the fabric, I was sure of it.
Chelsea grimaced. “I’ll take care of that.”
“And I should go change, and…” She looked so fragile and alone on the big couch without me by her side, and I couldn’t help adding, “Unless you need me to stay?”
“No. Go. Tell Finn I say hey.”
“I will. That reminds me, my dad requested you to stop by and say hi.”
“I’ll swing by sometime after work this week. And by then I’ll be telling you all about how I kicked names and took ass. Wait.” Her forehead scrunched up. “Reverse and remix that shiznit—you know what I’m saying.”
“Rarely,” I joked. “If you need anything, text or call.”
“Will do. I’ll probably send you weird Snapchat pics when I get bored, so be prepared for the awesome.” It was her favorite thing to do in her free time, and I’d received countless weird pictures over the last few months. “You know, if you got the app, I wouldn’t have to post them to my story and text them to you, my one friend who refuses to get with the times.”
“Never going to happen.” Regardless of her pushing me to get the absurd app, I didn’t have a clue how to work it, and I had absolutely no desire to take pictures that turned me into a fucking dog-pig or cracked-out bunny.
Secretly, I liked when she sent me the selfies with all the goofy filters. As ridiculous as they were, they never failed to make me smile. Not that I could admit to that now, or I might reveal too much, and the urgency to get out of here as soon as possible streaked through me.
I texted Finn, telling him to meet me at the Fainting Goat; rushed through a quick shower even though I’d taken one before leaving the gym, since I—like the rest of my apartment—smelled like smoke; and then threw on jeans and a T-shirt.
By the time I returned, George was curled up on Chelsea’s lap, and she was brushing his teeth. He appeared miserable yet resigned. Yeah, that’s what you get for hacking on my rug, dude.
The concentration on Chelsea’s face made me smile. She was so thorough, not bothered in the least by her cat’s grumpy disposition or how he jerked his head away every few seconds. You could literally see how much she loved him, and I resolved to make peace with the temperamental feline. Even if he threw up everywhere and constantly showed me his asshole. By the end of this month, George and I were going to be besties.
Or at least learn how to tolerate each other.
“Later,” I called out, heading toward the door so I wouldn’t go and do something stupid, like abandon my hookup plans to watch Chelsea brush her cat’s teeth a
s she played some movie where the guys wore frilly, silky pants and talked in even frillier British accents.
I hesitated in the doorway, unable to resist one last chance to tease her. “For safety reasons, I feel I ought to say that if you need a distraction…” I know a much better method than cooking. Damn it, that wasn’t supposed to pop into my head. I swung open the door to the cupboard under the sink. “There’s a fire extinguisher in here.”
Chelsea attempted a flinty glare—still cute. “Are you implying I can’t cook?”
“No. I’m saying it. I’ll spell it out for you if you need me to.”
She tossed a crumpled napkin at me, but it caught air and landed on the floor halfway to the kitchen. “Have a good night, jerk face.”
“Night.”
As I was pulling the door closed, I caught sight of her flinging her bra aside, and then I had to force myself to lock the door so I wouldn’t head right back in.
…
In some ways, I felt bad for dragging Finn out to a bar where he couldn’t drink, thanks to being so close to his next fight. But I’d been sober and played DD plenty of times.
“What’s up?” he asked as soon as we’d settled on stools at the bar. “With Chelsea here, I figured you’d be at the gym or with her, from now until she leaves.”
“Yeah, me too, but…” I caught the bartender’s eye and lifted a finger, signaling I’d be the only one of the two of us drinking tonight. “I just need to expend some energy.”
A whole heap of smugness settled into my brother’s smile, tempting me to punch it right off him.
“Don’t start,” I warned, right as the bartender placed a beer in front of me.
“I was wondering how long it’d take for you to see it. I’m proud. I thought it’d be longer.”
My current plan was denial—not that it was working great, but once I decided on a method, I hated to abandon it. Instead I’d kill myself perfecting it, just so I could say I was right. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. I just need a quick hookup. How many times have I been your wingman for the very same thing?”
Finn drummed his fingers on the bar. Then he lifted his phone and stared at the screen. “I really wanna call Brooklyn and ask for her advice. I can tell from the serious look on your face, I’m going to need help to talk you out of this crazy plan.”