“Fine. If you’re a good boy during the event, I will make you dinner as a reward.”
His lips twitch. “Deal. I have one request.”
“What’s that?”
“Will you cook at my place? Instead of yours?” The casual way he asks makes my stomach drop to my knees. I must look thrown because he leans toward me, lowering his voice. “I have an ulterior motive.”
“What’s that?”
When he grins, he’s like a kid with a shiny new toy. “If you cook at my place, I’ll get to keep the leftovers.”
Chapter 18
Limes, huh? Those must be for margaritas.”
I roll my eyes but don’t comment.
“Mm, jalapeño. That must be for the queso. You are making queso, right?”
“Stop it.”
Ben and I are at the store, shopping for our dinner. That’s right, it’s D-Day. Dinner Day. I haven’t told him what I’m making and he’s currently trying to pester me into spilling the details—in between griping about the event we just attended.
“I can’t help it, I’m starving. You didn’t tell me that guy was going to drone on for two hours. And at dinnertime!” The real crime, apparently.
“You’re lucky I’m making you dinner at all after the heckling you did.”
He raises a finger in dispute. “I did not heckle. I merely asked a simple question about his numbers not adding up. He should have been prepared for it.”
“You heckled,” I reiterate, selecting an onion as he trails behind the cart. “I thought your head was going to explode. You were sighing so much, I’m surprised you didn’t pass out.”
“If he said ‘wealth redistribution’ one more time . . .” he says, then shakes his head. “The important thing is, I’ve proven how open-minded I am. Good luck beating me now.”
“It’s hard to beat you without a task,” I remind him.
“Be careful what you wish for, Katie Cat, especially after that nonsense I just suffered through.” He furrows his brow. “Why are you picking out grapefruit? Is that for tomorrow’s breakfast?”
I sigh loudly. “You need a task.” I tear off the bottom of my list and hand it to him. “Go next door to the liquor store and get the things on that list.”
“Your wish is my command.” He starts to leave before turning back, leaning on the cart with an elbow. “Now, don’t try to check out before I get back. I’m paying for this.”
“You’re darn right you’re paying for this. What do you think, I’m cooking and buying?”
He’s chuckling as I shoo him away, and I finish gathering the rest of the items on my list without his meddlesome snooping.
I’m playing it cool, but I’m pretty anxious about this dinner. There’s been a noticeable shift in our dynamic over the last couple of weeks, a simmering undercurrent of tension that coats every one of our interactions like pollen in springtime. I see or hear from Ben every day, whether it’s a spontaneous drop-by, a lunch, a text, or more recently, when he seems to magically finish up work the same time I do so he can walk me home. I tell myself I’m letting him because it’ll get my mom off my back, but I’m not sure who I’m trying to fool. Those walks are the best part of my day.
Another thing that’s changed? The amount of flirtatious physical contact between us has skyrocketed. Every one of his hugs, hands on the back, and playful hair ruffles triggers deep theoretical analysis when I’m lying in bed at night. I’m sure a casual observer wouldn’t bat an eyelash at our low-level PDA, but compared to how we behaved before? We may as well be publicly fornicating on the steps of the White House.
Stephen’s taken to calling us “friends without benefits,” and it’s excruciatingly accurate. It’s bizarre, this romantic purgatory I’ve found myself stranded in. I’ve never had a guy best friend before (a straight one, anyway); is this what it’s like? Constant flirting with no hope of it leading anywhere? If so, I’d like to unsubscribe. Delete my account. I’m so sexually frustrated, I could scream.
By the time he gets back from the liquor store, I’m ready to check out. He insists on carrying all the bags, so I load him up like a pack mule. Between his massive workbag, the liquor bags, and the grocery bags, I’m thanking God he can bench-press twice my body weight.
His building really is close to mine—like catty-corner close. When I realize, I widen my eyes and whisper, “Stalker,” but he only laughs.
Ben’s phone starts ringing as he’s shouldering into the apartment. Since my hands are free, I pluck it out of his pants pocket, trying to ignore their dangerous proximity to his crotch.
“You have a FaceTime call from Mom,” I report, unable to suppress my grin. “How sweet that you’re FaceTiming now, too.”
He groans. “I did it once and created a monster. Just let it ring through.” He heads in the direction of what I assume is his kitchen.
“Sure thing,” I tell him, then press ACCEPT. This should be fun.
“Hi, Mrs. Mackenzie? This is Ben’s friend Kate. He has his hands full, but he wanted to make sure he didn’t miss your call.”
Ben’s head swivels one hundred eighty degrees. He’s Linda Blair in The Exorcist. His look of abject distress has already made this little gamble worth it. It’s payback time, buddy.
The woman on the screen has shoulder-length brown hair the same shade as Ben’s, round cheeks, and a friendly smile that’s familiar. “Oh! Kate, it’s so nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you. And please, call me Susan,” she chatters in a lilting Texas twang. Her eyes are lit with excitement as she takes me in, her effusive hopefulness radiating through the screen like sunshine. She may even be more transparent than my own mother.
Moms. I guess once you’re single past a certain age, they’re all the same.
“You have? Well, isn’t that just so sweet of him?” I say, playing up my southern accent. I keep an eye on Ben’s agitated form in the kitchen as he frantically tries to free himself from his plastic web. “I’d just love to hear what he’s told you.”
He’s across the room and snatching the phone out of my hand before the words are even out. “Never mind that, Mom.” He shoots me a dirty look.
You don’t screen moms, I mouth to him, then call out, “Nice to meet you, Susan! Hopefully we’ll talk again soon.”
I’m snickering as I head into his kitchen and busy myself unloading and organizing the dinner ingredients. He has basic cooking utensils, but it’s pretty sparse. I open drawers and find one dedicated entirely to takeout menus and another full of assorted tools. Apparently Ben is really into pliers, because he has like six pairs. If I have jewelry that needs fixing, I’ll know just where to go.
His mom’s voice drifts over from the living room. “Oh, Ben, she’s lovely. She’s as pretty as you said.”
I freeze.
“Mother,” he says sharply.
I pretend to focus on meal prep as he crosses the living room and disappears into a room off the hallway. I try to activate my superhearing but can’t catch anything beyond a few hushed murmurs. In fact, imagining Ben in his bedroom makes my pulse go haywire. I wonder if I’ll get to see it. It seems only fair, since he’s seen mine—and, you know, slept in my bed.
I take stock of the situation. Ben’s mom said she’s “heard so much” about me. I’d chalked that up to your standard southern small talk, but now that I know he told her I’m pretty? That’s kind of a big deal, right? Should I acknowledge that I heard it? Is there even a way to bring it up without sounding like I’m fishing for compliments? I’m thinking no. Guess I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear it. No point in making things awkward. Or awkwarder.
I belatedly look around, taking in his apartment for the first time. It’s slightly larger than mine and newer, though very bachelor pad–ish in décor—brown leather couches, lots of heavy wooden furniture, a giant flat-screen mounted on the wall. It c
ould use a woman’s touch, the overall effect a little dark. If I lived here I’d pick a lighter paint color, hang some art, add some plants. Every home needs something green and alive—like Ben himself, I guess you could say.
If I lived here? Settle down, Kate.
I think I was expecting something more like his office, with towering piles of paper and detritus everywhere, but it’s surprisingly neat. Everything has a place, and everything in its place. Darn. He’d be so much less appealing if he were a hoarder or something. I vow to unearth more of his flaws. I should check his cable history; it can tell you a lot about a person. My eyes snake down the hallway like a burglar casing the joint. Maybe I can find some closets to rummage through.
I’m demurely cutting peppers when he emerges from his room, smiling tightly. I remind myself not to make things weird.
I last about three seconds. “So, what have you told your mom about me?” I can’t help myself. I’m the worst.
He exhales. “I just told her about dinner with your mom, that’s all. Don’t go getting any ideas.”
He crosses to the fridge and pulls out a couple of water bottles, handing one to me. It’s one of the things I’ve noticed about him, his innate good manners. He doesn’t say Water’s in the fridge, help yourself; he goes and gets me one, always without being asked. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, which is probably the sexiest part.
I’ve got this virile man-god standing in front of me, and his manners are what turn me on. Go figure.
“What ideas would I get, Benjy?”
That you think about me too? That you can’t help but talk about me to other people? That you’re in love with me?
Whoa. Where did that last one come from? SETTLE DOWN, KATE.
He huffs and walks out to his TV, crouching down to open a media cabinet. “See, this is why I said to let the call ring through. You of all people know how moms are, always trying to pair us off. I don’t need her thinking we’re halfway down the aisle or something,” he mutters. A second later, music fills the air. A second earlier and I wouldn’t have heard it.
I freeze, knife poised above the jalapeño, as a painful ache unfurls inside my chest. I think the dismissive tone he used hurts even more than his words. He may as well have said, What a crazy idea, you and me.
This is ridiculous. It was an offhanded comment, nothing more. Of course we aren’t halfway down the aisle; we’re not even dating. I have no right to care about this.
Then why are your hands shaking?
I set the knife down very deliberately. “Can you point me to your restroom?”
“Sure, it’s just down the hall.” He’s walked back into the kitchen now but stops when he sees the look on my face. “You okay?”
“Yep,” I say brightly, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I just need”—you—“uh, the bathroom.”
I don’t wait for a response, brushing past him as I flee down the hallway. Maybe I can blame the onion.
Ten seconds later I’m in his bathroom and staring at my reflection in the mirror, gulping lungfuls of air and willing myself not to cry.
This is not good. I’m in real trouble here.
How did I get here? And by here, I’m not talking about Ben’s bathroom, which is irresistibly scented with his pine forest cologne or body wash or whatever the hell this intoxicating smell is that’s driving me slowly insane. With each breath I suck in, he tunnels a little deeper into my chest. I should have picked a different place to hyperventilate.
How did I go from hating Ben with the fiery passion of a thousand suns to being reduced nearly to tears by his casual dismissal of our relationship? Should I have seen this coming? If I rewind time, could I pinpoint the second, the moment, the interaction that changed everything?
Somewhere along the line, I stopped despising him and started dreaming about him. Hoping he’d touch me, argue with me, notice me.
Want me.
How can I be falling for someone who’s so obviously wrong for me? I’m smarter than this. Ben and I together would be a disaster. We’re oil and water. Hamilton and Burr. Kanye and Taylor Swift. We don’t mix.
What am I supposed to do now? I’m cooking for him, for crying out loud. Like I’m his girlfriend or something. And what’s the deal with Corinne, anyway? Is he dating her or not? And if he is, does she know Ben’s inviting other women to his apartment at night?
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I need to come up with a plan of attack. I can’t let on that I’ve just had an existential crisis in his bathroom. I’m good with lists. I’m even better at crossing things off. So here’s what I come up with:
Step 1: Leave the bathroom.
Step 2: Act normal.
Step 3: Analyze this later, when I’m not cowering in Ben’s erotically spiced bathroom.
It’s a solid plan. I think I can manage it. But before I can leave, I have to do one thing.
I stand and cross to his medicine cabinet. I’m a woman on a mission and not even my freshly minted crush-shame can stop me. I open the door and spot it immediately: cologne. And it’s in a green bottle, of course. What other color would it be? My whole world is painted green these days.
When I uncap it and take a big whiff, the thunderbolt of attraction that rips through me is so intense, I have to grip the vanity. And that’s when it hits me:
I am totally infatuated with Ben Mackenzie.
Chapter 19
Sugar or salt rim?”
“Salt, definitely.”
I’ve successfully executed the first two steps of my three-step plan, and Ben hasn’t appeared to notice my jumpier-than-usual behavior, thank God. I drag his glass through the salt and pour in the freshly made margarita, then present it to him like a winning lottery ticket. He takes a sip and his eyes widen.
“What did you put in here? Crack?”
“Sorry, can’t tell you. It’s my special recipe.”
He surveys the various citrus carcasses and cocktail artifacts strewn about the countertop. “I guess I’ll have to use my powers of deduction.”
I laugh. “No, I mean I can’t tell you because I make it a little differently every time. It’s mostly the fresh-squeezed fruit. Margaritas taste so much better if you don’t use mix.”
“Evidently.” He scans the ingredients I have laid out. “So how can I help?” He starts unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, then glances down at his suit pants. “Maybe I should change.”
“Oh, no you don’t. If I don’t get to wear comfy clothes, then neither do you, sir.”
I’m proud of how steady I keep my voice, like the thought of him shedding clothing doesn’t put me at risk of a cardiac event.
“I can’t even take off my tie?”
I let out a loud sigh, like this is an outrageous request. “Fine. You may remove your tie.” I’m so generous. “But for every item you take off, I get to take one off, too.” What am I even saying?
He reels back. “Seriously? I’ll take them all off, then.”
“Never mind. I . . . misspoke.” Backpedal, backpedal.
“Can I pick the item?”
“No! Just forget I said anything.”
Ben narrows his eyes, very deliberately moving his hands to his neck. Keeping his eyes locked on mine, he loosens his tie, pulls it over his head, and throws it on the counter.
It’s so erotic, I can barely stand up straight.
I arch an eyebrow and place my hands at the neck of my blouse. His eyes flare.
“Just kidding.” I kick off my leopard-print heels and cackle. I’m quite a seductress.
He unbuttons his top couple of shirt buttons, not breaking my gaze. He’s calling my bluff. Well. If he thinks I’m backing down, he’s in for a surprise.
I unbutton the top button of my blouse. He untucks his shirt. I untuck mine. He slides off his watch, and off
come my earrings. We’re contestants on Strip Chef, the hottest new show on the Food Network.
When he puts his hand on his belt, I hold my hands up in surrender. “All right, I give. I have nothing else to take off.”
“I could suggest something, if you need ideas.” The oven beeps then, and it’s not the only thing that’s preheated.
Ben is giving me a very . . . unplatonic look. For the first time, a bloom of hope swells inside me, like a heart-shaped balloon inflating in my chest. Ben and me together . . . could it actually work? Is he wondering the same thing? I know I’m not imagining this tension saturating the air between us. There’s no way he’s seriously dating Corinne if he’s playing strip . . . er, cooking with me in his kitchen.
Unless . . .
What if Ben is dating Corinne—and bringing me back here because he brings lots of women home to his apartment? What if I’m just one of many? What if I’m the other woman? I may have feelings for Ben, but there are lines I won’t cross. I’m not a woman who screws over other women. And I’m certainly not lining up to be another notch on his bedpost.
I take a step back. Then another.
Confusion clouds his expression. “What’s the matter?”
I swivel toward the counter, obscuring my face as best I can. “Nothing.”
This is getting ridiculous. I should just ask him—Are you dating Corinne? Find out once and for all. But something’s stopping me, a combination of pride and fear and doubt that has me paralyzed with indecision. What if I’m totally misreading him? What if he’s just messing with me again, like he did on our run? What if I lay my cards out on the table and he rejects me—or worse, gives me the just friends speech? I’ll never recover from the shame.
“Did I cross the line? I was just kidding around.”
See? It was a joke, Kate.
I force a smile. “You’re fine. I’m just hungry.” So hungry for you, you have no idea. “Let’s focus on dinner.”
Meet You in the Middle Page 16