Carey
“I told you, it’s not a date.”
I’ve repeated the same seven words to Kaipo for the last twenty minutes. Ever since he came downstairs to find me mopping the kitchen floor.
“You’re cleaning for a woman who is coming to our house to make you a nice dinner.”
I shake my head and continue scrubbing the tile with the mop.
“What part of that is not a date?”
I shove the mop in the bucket and stare at him. “The part where she’s my tutor and I have no desire to fuck her.” I frown when the words leave my lips because that’s not exactly true. I do have the desire to get Rowan naked in a million different ways, but I won’t. We’re friends. Ew. Even my brain rejects that word.
Kaipo’s grin widens. “The sexy redhead?”
The way he says it has me glaring at the fucker as he sits on the countertop wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants.
His wide shoulders bounce with laughter. “Bro, don’t get all huffy. The girl is fine as fuck. You’d have to be gay to not want to hit that.” He squints and scratches his jaw. “Naw, I take that back. I think even a gay guy would want to play with her naked. What’s her name? Rowanda?”
“Rowan,” I say, my jaw hard. “And please, don’t hit on her, okay? She’s not like the girls we’re used to. I don’t want you scaring her off with the whole dick sign language thing.”
“Chicks love it when my dick communicates in sign language.” He jumps off the countertop and wiggles his hips making his junk bounce behind the gray cotton. “My dick just told you to fuck off.”
I pour out the dirty mop water and rinse the mop in the sink. “Just stay out of her way, alright? Rowan is the ticket to me playing in our bowl game. Please, don’t piss her off.”
“Fine.” He swigs from his water bottle. “But I’m not the one you have to worry about. I overheard Mac talking to Loren about your ‘hot tutor’ and how he was thinking of asking her out.”
“Mac said that?” I know Rowan liked Mac, but I hoped I talked her out of that. If she knew he was into her, well… fuck.
“He did. Loren told him not to make a move until after she was done being your tutor.”
Maybe I’ll just keep her as my tutor for the rest of the year, maybe even longer. I shake my head because that’s ridiculous. Rowan deserves to be happy, and Mac is a good guy. An image of them together flashes through my mind's eye, his hands in her hair, his tongue in her mouth… The sound of Kaipo’s laughter makes me realize I’m shaking my head.
“Sure it’s not a date, asshole.” He laughs all the way upstairs and to his room.
I wipe down the countertops one more time, and then hear Rowan’s Jetta pull into our driveway. I throw the rag in the sink and on my way to the door see my roommate Spider on the couch playing a video game. I’m about to ask him to continue that shit in his room, but the doorbell rings and I don’t get a chance.
Rowan is standing at the door with two arms worth of grocery bags.
“Let me help you.” I take the bags with one hand and when I do I nearly catch my breath at what she’s wearing. A skirt showcasing her long, pale legs, and a white sweater that is tight enough to outline the round globes of her breasts. Her hair is down and falls over her boobs in enticingly soft waves. I step back. “Come in.”
When she does, I watch her immediately scan the foyer.
“Did you find it okay?” I motion for her to follow me to the back where the kitchen is.
She follows, but her gaze continues to scan, and suddenly I feel like I’m under a microscope of judgment. She spots Spider. He looks up at her, then back to his game, but quickly jerks his gaze back to her and says, “Hey.”
“Rowan, this is Spider.”
“Spider?”
He sets down his controller and stands to greet her. Her eyes widen as she looks up at him. “Theodore Weber, shortened to Web, lengthened to Spider.”
“Oh, nice to meet you,” she says to the guy who is not so subtly checking her out.
I hook her around the shoulders and steer her toward the kitchen, glaring at my roommate who’s staring at her bare legs as we walk away. Fucker.
“I wondered what kind of house five football players could possibly fit into.” Her chin tilts back to look up at the high ceilings and staircase. “I didn’t expect it to be so clean,” she says when we enter the kitchen.
I release her to set down the four bags of groceries. “We lucked out. The house is owned by a friend of our coach. We take care of it because we know if we don’t coach would have our asses.”
“This kitchen is amazing,” she says in awe.
I follow her gaze as she looks around the space, trying to see what she sees. The four burner Viking stovetop, sub-Z fridge, and the butcher block island that seats eight. A kitchen made for giants.
I give her a quick tour of the space, showing her where everything she might need lives.
“I’m going to run up and take a shower, you’ll be okay?”
Her expression is excited, even more excited than she looked when I finally nailed the future value of a stream of equal payments formula. “More than okay.” She pulls items from the grocery bags. “Take your time.”
As much as I’d love to grab a beer and watch her cook, I never did get a shower since fixing her car so I run upstairs for a wash and make it fast before my dumbass friends scare her off.
Rowan
I can’t get over the gorgeousness of Carey’s house. I would’ve sworn I had the wrong house when I pulled into the affluent Los Angeles neighborhood, and when I drove up to the driveway I would’ve double checked the address if I hadn’t seen his charcoal gray pickup truck in the driveway.
The two-story yellow house with white trim appeared like a giant dollhouse from the outside, such a contrast to the heaps of masculinity I know to live inside. And once I was let in, it was more of the same. Overstuffed couches, ornate lighting, and a farmhouse style kitchen like I’ve seen on the Food Network cooking shows. Not at all what I would expect a houseful of testosterone-laden athletes to live.
I’m pounding the chicken breasts and seasoning them, getting them ready for the warming grill pan when I hear footsteps behind me.
“I hope you’re hungry. I got enough chicken to…” My words die on my lips when I see Levi smiling at me appreciatively from his leaned position on the island.
“Rowan Campbell, what are you doing cooking in my kitchen?” His accent seems thicker, his voice deeper.
My cheeks get hot. “Hey, Levi. I’m cooking Carey dinner, my way of saying thank you for fixing my car.” I wipe my hands on a paper towel feeling like a bug under a microscope as he studies me.
“Kiss the cook, huh?” he says, with a knowing grin.
Stupid apron. I scramble to get it off. “I found it in a drawer. I didn’t want to splatter my sweater in chicken juice.” I ball it up and toss it aside then instantly regret it when I catch him looking at my boobs.
“Yo, Mac! What the fuck did you do with—whoa, sorry.” Another big guy, this one more Carey’s size with height and width, skids to a stop in the kitchen, his eyes on me. He has blonde, shaggy hair, and bright blue eyes. “Hello there.” He has a similar accent to Levi’s, maybe less pronounced.
“Rowan.” I hold up my hands. “I’d shake your hand, but raw chicken.”
“Loren.” He angles his head to Levi. “Friend of yours?”
“No, she’s cooking for Carey.” Levi looks slightly annoyed by the interruption but shakes it off and grins. “Loren is my older brother. He plays with Carey.”
“Oh, alright. Nice to meet you.”
Levi jerks his head my way. “Rowan is Carey’s tutor.”
Loren’s blue eyes sparkle with recognition. “Ahh, okay.” He looks like he wants to say more but decides against it. He hooks his little brother by the bicep and tugs. “We’ll get out of your way then. Nice meeting you.”
I blow out a breath and tug at my sweater while praying away the nervous sweat. “They’re just men,” I tell myself. Perfect physical specimens, sure, but still just men. No different than Marcus. And yet…not at all similar.
I place eight pounded chicken breasts on the hot grill pan, they were on sale, two packages for the price of one, and I’d never turn down a food bargain. I figured I’d go big, knowing Carey had roommates, someone would eat it all.
The water in the pasta pot is boiling, so I salt it and drop in four boxes of fettuccine, give it a stir, and set the timer on the oven.
I check the sauce and turn the heat down to simmer, then dig into the fridge for the romaine I put in there earlier and start ripping off leaves when Carey finally joins me in the kitchen.
“Smells like fucking in heaven in here,” he says as he heads to the stove to check out the food.
“No peeking!”
He acts like he can’t hear me, so I hook him by the arm and… oh wow, his skin is so soft. Are men usually this soft? His warm hazel eyes dart from my hand to my eyes and there’s a zap of electricity between us. Or maybe it’s just me, all I know is that the tingling is back. I drop my hand and give him a shaky smile. “It’s a surprise.”
His hair is wet and his jaw freshly shaved and why does he have to smell so good? I’m nervous and sweaty and I could really use a ponytail holder.
“Drink?” He crosses to the fridge. “We have water, beer, lemonade, and vodka.”
I don’t usually drink alcohol, mainly because it’s too expensive, but right now I’d take anything to calm my nerves. “Beer sounds good.”
He smirks. “My kind of girl.”
My heart hiccups. God, I wish he wouldn’t say things like that.