Like I do
Angel
developing between us, but I don’t want him to think I invited him here to get lucky. “Damian.”
“Sorry.” He steps back, creating a draft across my back, making me miss his body heat.
“Dinner will be ready in twenty.” The tension between us is practically creating an electrical current; I need to divert our conversation to something else. “Now, you promised me some insight into who Damian Taylor is. Please, tell me I haven’t invited a serial killer into my home. Until I know for sure, I’ll hold on to this knife.” I laugh in an attempt to pass off my threat as a joke. It mostly is.
He holds the corkscrew, exhales, and starts turning the device to release the liquid courage within, seemingly unbothered by my knife comment. “What do you want to know?”
“We’ll start easy. Tell me about your family. Siblings? Parents? Oh, and where you grew up.”
With a half-full wineglass in each hand, he sets one on the counter beside me. “I grew up about an hour north of here. A potato farming community. One brother, Josh. He’s ten years older than me, but a different dad. Mom was unlucky, marrying and divorcing twice before she gave up on the illusion of love entirely. Josh is married to his high school sweetheart, Lily, and they have two daughters, Dahlia and Daisy.”
I take a moment to contemplate everything he’s said as I sip my wine, but focus on his “illusion of love” comment. “So your brother didn’t buy into the ‘illusion of love’ mentality, and married Lily. Where do you stand?”
He is seated on the stool at the counter and blinks several times before replying. “Jury is still out. I think that love can be a very real thing, but not everyone experiences it.”
“Have you ever experienced it?” I smirk at him, curious about his answer.
“Familial love, sure. I’d give my last breath for my nieces, my brother, my mom, or Lily. But if you’re asking about romantic love, no. I haven’t been that lucky.” He takes a sip of wine, holding it in his mouth before swallowing. If he thinks he’s going to taste an oaky bouquet in this price range, he’ll be disappointed. “What about you? Any great love stories?”
I release a ridiculous laugh that clearly relays my thoughts on the matter. “Not even close. I don’t think you realize how off-putting it can be for men with fragile egos to have a woman who speaks nothing but the truth. I haven’t gotten beyond a first date in the last eight years.” That was an unnecessary addition to the conversation.
“Eight years? And you’ve never had a second date? So since you were—”
“Sixteen. And that was nothing spectacular either.” I need to steer the conversation away from that topic, because I do not want to spill my guts to this man right now. “Tell me where you see yourself in ten years.” In my experience, that question always prompts a few minutes of serious reflection and contemplation. Distraction from tales of my dating woes and tragic history.
“Honestly, I have no idea. Five years ago, I didn’t see myself where I am now in terms of my career, so what ten years in the future holds is a mystery.”
I send him a smile over my wineglass. “That sounds better anyway, doesn’t it? The mystery? What would be the point of fighting for what we want if everything was predetermined?”
He beams at me, wrinkles forming around his eyes, obviously understanding it was a rhetorical question. He’s gorgeous. Captivating. Dangerous.
I replace the lid on one pot, then stir the other before tilting the lid for air to vent and avoid having it boil over.
“What are you making? It smells great.”
“Chicken Paprikash. It’s a Hung—”
“Hungarian dish. With pasta?”
I nod. “Egg noodles, yeah.”
His smile spreads wide across his face, his eyes practically sparkling. “Did you know I’m Hungarian?”
I choke on the wine I’m sipping, surprised by that tidbit of information. When my coughing stops, I reply, “No. I never would have guessed that based on your name.”
“My mother is Hungarian. Father was… is French Canadian.”
“Do you ever speak to your father?”
His smile falters, diminishing to a tense line. “No.”
I shouldn’t press that topic of conversation. He doesn’t seem interested in sharing that part of his life with me; I sympathize.
“You ready to eat?” I ask, reaching into my way-too-high upper cabinet to grab a couple of pasta plates.
“Starving.” His smile returns, and I’m glad we waded out of those treacherous waters.
When I turn back to look at Damian, there’s a hunger in his eyes, and it’s nothing to do with the food. Perhaps inviting him into my home was a colossal mistake. I am not someone who loses control, but his presence here is testing my limits.
I dish up our food and walk around to place it at the small dining table dividing my living room and kitchen. Genie is dancing around my feet as I walk, eager for her own dinner, which she usually gets at the same time I eat. So, before I settle down at the table, I serve Genie’s pre-portioned raw food. Once she has her disgusting meal, I join Damian at the table. “Sorry, duty calls. She has expectations.”
He chuckles, staring into my eyes.
I blink and look away. “Well, dig in. Hopefully it’s edible.”
As he glances down at his food, loading his fork and bringing it to his mouth, I focus on him taking his first bite, trying to block out the sound of Genie’s greedy snort-slurping from ten feet away. When his lips close around his fork, his eyes widen in surprise.
“This is amazing,” he mumbles around a mouthful of food.
I know I’m not inept in the kitchen, but his validation feels good.
He scoops up another bite. “Why aren’t you cooking at the restaurant? You’d do a better job than the other cooks there.”
“Oh, that place is definitely a candidate for Kitchen Nightmares. I would end up in prison if I had to work in there for more than five minutes. I don’t know how Hannah does it.”
“What’s so bad about it?”
“Let’s just say we don’t have a human resources department, and it shows.”
Damian sets his fork down on the circular placemat. “What does that mean?”
I take a bite of my food and nod in approval. “Not bad.”
I’m not intending on avoiding his question, but I think he takes it that way if his facial expression is any indication.
“What does that mean, Angel?”
Another sip of my wine to delay this conversation another second does nothing but make him more impatient.
“It means that the men in the kitchen don’t think women belong there except to gawk at or grope.” Trying to downplay the perverts I work with, I continue, “Which is pretty stupid, considering their boss is a woman. She’s in her early fifties though, so they leave her be, and she’s oblivious to the attention the other girls and I get.”
Damian is gaping at me. He closes his mouth, running his tongue along his upper teeth. “They grope you?”
“Not as much now since I threatened bodily harm, but a few of them still see it as a game.”
“That’s unacceptable. Your boss doesn’t do anything?”
“My boss is the worst offender. He spends half of his day drinking his profits, and by the time the dinner rush clears out, he’s inebriated.”
Damian looks horrified, but I don’t blame him, because it is appalling.
“Has he ever—”
“Can we change the subject? I’m sorry, but this isn’t really relaxing after-work conversation. If it makes you feel better, the other girls and I have an unspoken rule to never leave each other alone. We have each other’s backs.” I take another bite of my food, hopeful Damian will let the subject drop. This isn’t what I had in mind when I invited him here. “Tell me more about you.”