by Kelsie Rae
DRBen918: Nope. Just bring yourself. I’ll take care of everything.
Marcy123Marcy: Hmm…with how much of a stickler you are with sexting etiquette, I feel like this is a trap. What kind of guest would I be if I didn’t bring something to the table?
DRBen918: I’d be happy to snack on you, if you insist….
Tracey pops up with a smirk when she sees me gripping my phone.
“Ready to admit you’ve met someone yet?”
“Nope.”
“You sweet, naive man. She’s got you good, Ben.”
And even though I don’t acknowledge Tracey’s comment, a single thought filters through my head.
I’m in trouble.
7
Marcy
Stomach rolling, I pull up in the driveway and take a deep breath.
Damn nerves.
When he’d asked how I like my steak, I didn’t exactly anticipate we’d be cooking it ourselves. I can’t even make toast without it turning black, and I’m pretty sure that’s not a trait guys look for in a girl.
Although the fact that he can cook is a huge turn on.
I learned the hard way about meeting a guy at his home, though. Like the wise Left Ear once said in the movie, Italian Job, “I had. A bad. Experience.”
Shoving aside the less than palatable memory, I turn off the ignition and rest my head on the steering wheel before assessing Ben’s place. The house is gorgeous. Red brick. White accents. A polished yard with green grass and trimmed bushes. It’s picturesque, to say the least. Pretty big for a single guy. He must’ve purchased it with his wife before she died.
My sympathy sparks the same way it always does whenever I think of his late wife. I can’t imagine losing someone I love. I’ve been pretty lucky in that department. Grandparents are healthy. Parents are healthy. Sister’s healthy. I’m lucky. And for some reason, that only amplifies my emotions.
I shouldn’t be here.
In another life, his wife would be inside this house. She’d be wearing a cherry-embroidered apron with a string of pearls around her neck while drinking chardonnay as she asks Ben about his day.
He’d tell her something funny because the guy is witty if nothing else, then they’d kiss the night away in each other’s arms, thanking their lucky stars they were fortunate enough to find each other.
And I’d be home. Heating up a frozen dinner because I’m a crappy cook who never found the effort to learn when I’d only be making it for one person. Me.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and I curiously pull it out to see a message from Ben.
DRBen918: Ya know, my security system alerts me when there’s someone in my driveway. Care to join me?
My groan mixes with an embarrassed laugh that I’ve been caught as I open the driver’s side door and head to his front door. It’s already open and has painted Ben’s muscular frame in light as he rests his shoulder against the jamb.
“Sorry, I’m late,” I apologize before raising a plastic bag of dinner rolls I’d picked up at the bakery. “I didn’t know what to bring. I thought about a bottle of wine, but since I can’t drink, that might’ve seemed weird.”
Laughing, he reaches for the bag of rolls then tugs me to his side as he guides me into his home, which is just as stunning on the inside as it is on the outside. “Rolls will be great. And I already took care of the beverage situation, so we should be good to go. Thanks for being so thoughtful even though I insisted I had it all covered,” he admonishes with a crooked smirk.
“Hey, I’m not about to test social etiquette, mister.” His deep laugh sends tingles racing down my spine. Rocking back on my heels, I add, “Thanks for inviting me, by the way. When you asked how I like my steak grilled, I didn’t think you’d be making it yourself.”
“I’m a man of many talents.” His comment is delivered with that same arrogant, yet sexy as hell smirk. Pretty sure that thing is permanently etched into his face whenever he’s around me. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“Nope. Thank you, Google Maps.”
“That app has saved me more times than I can count. Let me take your jacket. Then I can put you to work.”
My brow quirks. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Gotta help me make the food. Dinner isn’t going to make itself,” he teases. The scent of marinade and butter tickles my nostrils, and a small part of me thinks he’s kidding, but I can’t be sure.
Still, the guy’s gotta know what he’s getting into by inviting me into the kitchen, so I tell him, “I don’t cook. I take pretty good pictures and have babies for other people, but that’s about where my talents end. Sorry, my friend. But if you want it edible, then you’ll want me to sit this one out.”
He doesn’t answer as he leads me into his immaculate kitchen with white cupboards, gray speckled granite countertops, white walls, and bright red appliances that make the place look straight out of a Betty Crocker magazine. After placing me behind a cutting board, he hands me a tomato.
“Can you slice this without cutting off your finger?” he challenges.
“I can make no guarantees,” I quip before setting the vegetable––or is it a fruit?––onto the counter. Then I get to work.
“Just don’t get any blood in the serving bowl, and we’ll call it a win.” The playfulness in his voice, combined with the homey atmosphere, brings a smile to my face as I watch him open the oven to check on one of the side dishes. He’s cute like this––all homemaker-y.
Still, I can’t help but poke the bear a little more. “And what if the blood gets on my dress?”
Turning to me, his gaze slides up and down my little black dress that showcases my curves and hugs my body in all the right places. For now, anyway. Soon, there’ll be a baby bump that’ll knock my sex appeal down a few levels, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.
“That dress….” He stalks a little closer. My butt hits the counter behind me as his hands cage me in from both sides. “Is gorgeous on you.”
“Why, thank you,” I whisper, a blush creeping into my cheeks.
“But,” he adds with a wicked grin, “it won’t get you out of chopping duty. Let me get you an apron.”
Dropping my head back, I let my hair hang down my back and laugh as he retrieves the apron he’d mentioned from a drawer. When I see embroidered cherries, my smile softens, and my self-doubt creeps in.
Called it.
Keeping the fabric clutched in my hands, I ask, “Was this your wife’s?”
“No.” He stiffens, his eyes going hazy for an instant before returning to me. “It was an extra we kept for when her sister would come over to cook with her.”
“But you used to cook with her? You’re wife, I mean?” I murmur.
He nods, that same somber intensity oozing from his pores. “I did.” Then he cuts the distance between us a second time, takes the apron from my grasp, and slips it over my head.
“Cherries suit you,” he murmurs. “They make your freckles pop.”
I blush at the compliment, remembering our texting conversation the night before, and how he’d mentioned the same thing whenever I got embarrassed. And for the first time in my life, I don’t hate my freckles. I kind of love them.
His mouth is barely a couple of inches away from mine, begging me to raise onto my tiptoes to close the distance. My mouth waters as his eyes drop down to my lips, hinting that he might be thinking the same thing.
Then a bell dings on the oven, and he pulls away. “Chop, chop.”
Just like that, the cat-and-mouse game continues, and the vulnerable man I’ve only seen glimpses of disappears into thin air.
“So…do you like it?” Ben watches me chew the small piece of perfectly cooked medium-rare steak in my mouth, his gaze zeroing in on my closed lips.
After swallowing, I admit, “This is quite possibly the best steak I’ve ever tasted.”
“And that is quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my cooking.”<
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My mouth stretches into a smile before I cover it with the lip of my wine glass that’s filled with cranberry juice.
“What’s so funny?” he inquires, slicing off a bite of steak from his plate.
“Just the fact that you were thoughtful enough to buy me cranberry juice instead of wine. Especially since it’s cranberry juice. Which is my absolute favorite, by the way. Not gonna lie, I was a little worried about how I was going to explain my current”––I motion to my stomach––“state to a booty call.”
“Booty call? Is that all I am to you?”
His mock outrage pulls a light laugh out of me. “I’m sorry, would you call what we’re doing something else?”
“Well…no, but you make it sound so dirty.” His shiver only adds to the insanity of this entire conversation.
“Maybe I like it dirty,” I jest.
“Touché.” Raising his glass, he clinks it against my own. “To cranberry juice, getting down and dirty, and making the man in the relationship feel like a well-priced gigolo.”
Laughing even harder, I lift my glass. “I’ll drink to that.” Then I take a sip of the tart liquid and lick my lips. “Speaking of getting down and dirty, I do feel like I should probably address the elephant in the room.”
“And what elephant is that?”
Here we go.
Slicing off another bite of delicious meat, I take a bite and savor the peppery flavor before explaining, “When I signed up to be a surrogate, they made it very clear that….” I take a sip of my drink––again––and pray it’ll have the same effect as the wine in Ben’s cup. Unfortunately, I’m still as sober as an AA participant.
“That…what exactly?” he prods curiously.
“They, uh, they made it clear that I have to have all my partners tested before…you know….”
His forehead creases for a millisecond before he raises his index finger into the air and excuses himself from the table with a nearly-concealed smirk. Curious, I watch him retreat down a hallway in his gorgeous home before sampling the baked potato with sour cream and chives.
Holy crap, that’s good.
With a fresh salad, green beans, and a baked potato on the side, I’d call this a dinner of kings. And he made it all. For me.
I’ve never had a guy make me dinner. I’ve had a few buy me dinner. And I’ve had plenty buy me a beer or a shot at the bar. But put in the effort to actually make me something? I take another sip of my cranberry juice and try not to dissect his actions, but it feels almost impossible.
The confident stride of Ben’s steps echoes down the hall as he returns with a manilla folder. When he reaches the table, he offers it to me, but as I go to take it, he pulls it away.
“Promise you won’t be judgy or jump to conclusions?”
That sounds promising.
I hesitate before muttering, “Yes?”
“Okay, good. Because I’m a doctor, and I’m a bit OCD when it comes to my health. I get tested after every sexual partner I’m involved with. Here are the results from my last test.” He offers the manilla folder to me, again, but actually lets me take it this time.
Flipping it open, I scan the document inside for two seconds before admitting, “Yeah, I have no idea what any of this means. I’ll have to let my doctor take a look.”
Ben’s mouth quirks up on one side as the word doctor rolls off my tongue. “I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”
“Mmmhmm, he’s very thoughtful like that.”
“Oh, really?”
“Mmmhmm,” I hum a second time.
Gaze heating, he warns, “Careful, Marcy. You’re making me jealous.”
“Of your alter-ego? Is that even possible?”
“Definitely. I find myself jealous of a lot of things when I’m around you.”
My pulse jumps, and I catch myself craving more of this banter like a junkie, so I press, “Like what?”
“Hmmm….” His eyes continue to heat with lust as he leans a little closer to me. The deep, rumbling sound goes straight to my core. “For example, I’ve been jealous of your fork all evening. Watching your mouth wrap around it has been the sweetest torture imaginable.”
“My fork, huh?” I gently sway it back and forth in my hand like an orchestra conductor.
He nods.
“Well, that’s just cruel and unusual punishment, isn’t it?”
“Definitely.”
With a smirk, I drop the fork to my plate then pick up a small morsel of meat between my thumb and forefinger. Holding his gaze, I place it between my lips and make sure to suck the excess juice from my fingers as I remove them from my mouth.
“Is that better?” I ask in an innocent voice.
His mouth twitches, but he shakes his head and picks up another piece of steak from my plate, mirroring my actions from seconds ago with his own. The piece of meat hovers an inch from my mouth. Then he waits for me to make the next move. Wrapping my lips around it, I make sure to steal a taste of his skin too, swirling my tongue around the tip of his finger before pulling away and chewing the bite of steak.
“Still jealous?” I ask, peeking up at him through my upper lashes.
“You have no idea,” he growls. Like a starving man, he tangles his fingers into my hair and practically devours me whole. The taste of red wine explodes on my tongue as Ben tilts my head to the side, demanding a better angle before he delivers the best freaking kiss I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. My entire body is humming with awareness, and I love the anticipation that accompanies every touch. Every caress. Every subtle shift of his body. Every labored breath. All of it is enough to bring my lust to the surface until I’m a panting mess in front of him.
A loud knock vibrates through the front door, scaring the shit out of both of us. I’d been so lost in his kiss, the world around us had faded until the only thing I could think about was how much I wanted more. More kissing. More touching. More of this lust-induced haze he’d woven together in a matter of minutes.
Clearing his throat, Ben gently brushes his thumb along the seam of my lower lip. His eyes pin me in place until another loud knock echoes a second time.
He groans. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
His long legs eat up the distance between the kitchen table and his front door. When he reaches it, he swings it open with a bit more force than necessary. His back goes rigid as soon as he sees the person on the other side, and my brows furrow. With a quick glance, he looks over his shoulder at me, then turns back to the door and says something in a low voice, though I can’t quite make out what it is.
A higher-pitched voice replies, “Company? Who?”
It belongs to a woman, snapping me out of the lust-induced haze from only seconds before.
Why the hell would there be a woman at Ben’s door?
8
Ben
“Not really a good time right now, Krista,” I mutter, keeping my voice low. But a small part of me already knows there’s no way I’ll be able to salvage the night. “I have company.”
“Company? Who?” Like a little cobra, she sways from left to right in an attempt to look past me and into my house but is left unsatisfied.
What’s the saying from grade school? You make a better door than a window? And I’ve never been more grateful.
“How about I call you later?” I offer, standing my ground.
“No offense, Benny Boy, but you never invite people over. Is it a girl? Because you know that if it is––”
“Drop it, Krista,” I growl.
“Why? You’re allowed to move on, Ben. Kate would’ve wanted that.” The sound of her name tightens the razor-sharp barbed wire that I’ve grown accustomed to around the aching organ in my chest. Closing my eyes, I let the excruciating pain ground me, basking in it like a bad sunburn at the beach.
Her dainty hand presses against my bicep before she squeezes it gently. “She would’ve wanted you to be happy––”
Eyes snap
ping open, I take in the face that matches my dead wife’s. “I’m not moving on. This is just a fuck, okay?”
Krista flinches back for more than one reason. Kate hated it when I swore. The Lord’s name and the F-word were her two least favorites out of them all. Kate was pretty religious. Not in an over-the-top cult way, and definitely not in an I’m-better-than-you way, either. She was simply spiritual and thought someone was looking out for us. Once upon a time, I thought the same thing.
Until the love of my life was ripped out of my arms with our unborn child in her belly. Yeah, moments like that have a funny way of making you question whether or not there’s a God looking out for you.
That same fire that once burned in Kate’s eyes threatens to swallow me whole as Krista lets go of my arm and steps a little closer to me. Her five-foot frame and pixie cut hair is a stark contrast to the girl who’s been occupying all my thoughts lately, but I’m not able to dissect why before my wife’s twin sister pushes past me and saunters into the kitchen area like she owns the place.
“Hi, I’m Krista,” she announces to the eerily silent room. Swaying toward Marcy, she offers her hand. Marcy stares at it like it’s a damn viper before hesitantly taking it.
“M-Marcy. Nice to meet you. I, uh, I didn’t know I was interrupting something. Let me just grab my––”
“You’re not the one rudely interrupting. I am,” Krista consoles with the same warm smile I fell in love with when my wife wore it. “I’m Krista, Ben’s sister-in-law. Sometimes, I like to drop by and check on him. You know, make sure he’s eating something other than turkey sandwiches. Although with the spread I’m seeing on the table, I’m going to go ahead and say he’s doing juuust fine.” She tosses a knowing look at me. “So, how long have you known Ben?”
As soon as Marcy registers the words sister-in-law, she sags into her chair. The relief emanating off her is as potent as the lust from when we first kissed in this same room only a few minutes ago.