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My stomach sank. I should have deleted the video if I didn’t want anyone to see it. First rule of phones. I wasn’t ashamed of the video, but I was still a work in progress on the dance floor, and it wasn’t something I planned to share. I glanced from the still to his expression. It was warm. Some would say steamy. No judgement. His blue eyes were lit with interest under his shaggy hair.
I smiled, then dropped my gaze to the dress in my arms. “Yeah, I’ve been taking a studio class. It’s a lot of fun.”
“It was fun to watch. You look gorgeous. You’ve got me thinking all kinds of things.” His gaze moved off to the distance.
What did that mean?
“What kind of things?” See? He wasn’t the only one with no verbal filter.
I held my breath waiting for Chase’s answer. My fledgling dance moves hadn’t been intended for anyone’s eyes but mine, but now that he’d seen the video, I couldn’t resist asking. Hopefully he wouldn’t realize how much hinged on his reply. I’d been feeling a growing sexual tension between us, but did he feel it too?
His blue eyes moved back to mine. “Plotting things.”
“Oh.”
I was disappointed that his thoughts weren’t about me. I’d half expected him to ask for a private demonstration. My feelings for Chase were becoming more than friendly, but that didn’t mean he felt the same. He didn’t flinch when I told him what was on my mind. That was a rare quality in a man, and one I admired. But it didn’t mean he felt anything other than friendship. I’d thought his eyes gleamed with more than good humor during our little costume party, but he’d been thinking of work, not me.
“Did you get what you needed from our shopping trip?” I asked.
His blue eyes darkened; I was sure of it. His heavy-lidded expression intensified as he pushed up from his seat and advanced toward me. My heart beat faster as he reached out a finger and ran it down the fabric clutched in my hands.
“Silky,” he husked.
Heat flushed through me at the thought of that finger stroking my skin instead of the dress I carried. All thoughts of my earlier question fled.
“Excuse me,” a woman said loudly. The mother and her tween daughter brushed past us with armfuls of clothes and into a dressing room, breaking the mood.
Chase shifted his weight and ran a hand through his hair. He cleared his throat. His chipper tone when he spoke belied his gruff tone earlier. “Yep. Great research. I learned a lot. Thanks for letting me come.”
He bit his lip, and I wondered if I was the only one feeling achy at the word “come.”
I paid for the dress and Chase drove us back to my place to start dinner. I thought I’d feel awkward with a strange man in my space, but Chase took command of the kitchen and kept me too busy to worry about being alone together after our charged moment in the dressing room.
Chase pulled blue nitrile gloves from his bag of supplies and snapped them.
“You’re going to want these,” he said.
“I’m not giving a cervical exam.”
“They’re for the butternut squash.”
“You want me to examine the butternut squash?” I asked.
“No, I want to save your hands.” He picked up my right hand, cradling my fingers gently with his. He smiled and tingles raced through my body at the contact. “Butternuts cause allergic reactions in a lot of people. I don’t want you to have itchy, uncomfortable hands later.”
Whelp. Other parts of me were suddenly feeling itchy and uncomfortable at his nearness, but in a totally, non-allergy way. I cleared my throat. He squeezed my hand, then let it go.
“Put them on. You’ll thank me later.”
I shrugged. “No glove, no love.”
“Now you sound like one of my reviewers.”
Chase chuckled, and talk turned to books and reviewers while I peeled and chopped the butternut and other vegetables.
We made the pasta dough recipe while the butternut roasted. Chase stood close, his warm body dwarfing mine at the counter as we worked over the mixer. Butterflies flitted through my chest as he brushed up against me when he showed me how to feed the dough into the machine. I blurted out the first thing I could think of.
“Chase, this is an impressive pasta attachment.”
The reverberation of his laugh traveled through my body where we touched.
“Nice of you to notice.”
I glanced up and couldn’t resist adding, “It’s not every guy who has a pasta attachment this nice. How’d you get into cooking?”
Chase’s face lit with fondness. “Jimmy’s grandma.”
“Jimmy?”
“My good friend growing up. I practically lived at his grandma’s house. It always smelled so good, and after soccer practice it was also full of food.”
“So, everything a growing boy needs?”
He smiled. “Exactly. Grandma T was a great cook, but we didn’t eat for free. She made us help.”
I could picture a gangly Chase helping an older woman around the kitchen. She must have been a great teacher, because Chase’s joy in cooking showed in his gentle manipulation of the pasta dough.
It took a glass of wine, but we eventually had an impressive pile of beautiful little pillows of doughy goodness. My kitchen smelled heavenly thanks to the sage and roasted squash. I beamed with pride at our pasta babies. They were cute and perfect. If only I could avoid destroying them while they cooked. Chase worked on the sauce while I tended the boiling pasta. He hummed a happy song while he stirred, and I smiled. My tiny kitchen should have felt too small for us both, but we flowed around each other gracefully. Warmth flowed through me at our quiet companionship. When the dish was complete, I plated it and we sat down to eat.
My first bite was bliss. The ravioli exploded on my tongue, with the richness of the butternut and ricotta and the hint of sage to offset the sweetness. I couldn’t help but groan in appreciation. I looked up from my plate to see Chase smiling smugly at me.
“See? Wasn’t it worth it?”
I had to give it to him. “Yes. You can cook with me anytime.”
His smile broadened. “Beware, I may take you up on that. Cooking for one is damn boring and not half as fun.”
I nodded again. “Seriously, feed me dessert and I may be yours.”
He tilted his head. “I just might take you up on that too.”
“Flirt.”
I was pretty sure he wasn’t serious, but the way his eyes darkened as I wrapped my lips around my fork had me wondering.
When our bellies were full, we cleared the table and relaxed in the living room with another glass of wine. I was feeling pleasantly mellow until Chase broached the topic I’d been avoiding all day.
“So, tell me more about this wedding and your family.”
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
I’d forgotten about Chase’s intense interview skills. He spent the next thirty minutes grilling me on the details of my immediate and extended family. I spoke haltingly at first, but by the time he was done, he knew all about Uncle Ted and Grandma Marie and hadn’t run screaming. Yet. Revealing the petty grievances and family schisms lightened the mental load I’d been carrying and helped me put them in perspective. Chase listened to me talk without judgment, soothing my nerves.
I was convinced it was the lure of playing James Bond for the night that had him sticking with me, not any excitement for the event itself. We’d settled on a basic story for my family that was essentially the truth; Chase would play a friendly date for the day.
Eventually he called a halt to the torture and fed me dessert. I had seriously undervalued the appeal of man who could cook well. Chase brought out cups of layered chocolate mousse that he’d made the night before. Orgasm in a glass. I must have been more vocal than I realized with my appreciation, because Chase asked, “Do you make these sounds during sex too?”
“Wait, what?”
I watched as color washed over his face beneath his stubble. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ask aloud. My inner narrator must be broken. Not that I hear voices, but you know. Didn’t mean to say that. Sorry again. How about those Mariners? Do you like baseball?”
His rush to change the subject signaled his distress, and I let him off the hook. “I must have sounded silly. I’ll try to play it more cool next time you offer me dessert. It’s just. So. Good.”
I watched his shoulders relax as he realized I wasn’t going to turn it into a thing. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. It’s fun to share my recipes with an appreciative audience. It’s lonely cooking for only me.”
“I can’t imagine it’s that hard to find people to cook for. What about friends or family?”
He smiled. “My buddy Jimmy is great, but he works a lot. He’s a firefighter with Tacoma FD so his schedule and shifts are unpredictable. Another good friend has a significant other, and they’re frequently busy with other couples. My mom and dad live a few hours south, too far away for casual meals.”
After I’d scraped every last millimeter of chocolatey goodness out of my cup and cursed my tongue for not being longer so I could lick the bottom of the bowl, Chase and I moved into the kitchen to clean up. He scraped dishes and handed them to me to load the dishwasher, then I started hand-washing his pasta attachment and the few other larger dishes we used.
Chase put the unused ingredients away before grabbing a dish towel and joining me at the sink. His hip bumped mine, and I couldn’t help but feel the burn of the contact. He was in my space bubble, and I could smell the wine and spices that clung to his skin.
I handed him a pan to dry and nearly dropped it as our hands brushed. The scrape of his skin shouldn’t have felt so intimate. I gave my head an aborted shake and reached for the next dish, focusing on the caked-on pasta dough and flour instead of the big man at my side. His hip bumped mine again, and I wasn’t sure if it was intentional or if he was dancing to a song only he could hear. As I handed him the bowl, I looked up into his face.
Chase’s upper body was angled toward me, his expression dreamy. His shoulder brushed mine as he stepped closer to take the bowl from my hands. I couldn’t help glancing from his blue eyes to his lips. Soft. And welcoming. Time slowed like a student counting down the final minutes of school, and suddenly I could hear the same inaudible beat he did, swaying farther into his space. My face tilted up, and as we neared touching distance, he took the initiative to lean in and place his lips softly against mine.
I stood on tiptoes to deepen the contact, and he smiled against my lips. That soft smile lit along every nerve ending, sending flutters through my belly. His lips brushed mine before diving headlong into an exploration of my mouth. Heat rushed between my thighs at the contact. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, beseeching entry, and I relaxed into the sweep of his tongue tangling with mine. Chase tasted of sage and wine. I was so invested in the brush of our mouths that it took me a moment to realize that we were still clasping the dripping pan between our bodies like an unwieldy chaperone. So distracted by Chase’s lips, I didn’t realize I’d left the water on until it was near overflowing the sink. I came back to earth with a splash as the water reached critical levels, tearing my mouth from Chase’s.
“Sorry,” he said.
Sorry. Shit. Did he think our kiss had been a mistake? An in the moment thing? It’s true I hadn’t consciously decided to move our friendship into new territory but kissing him had felt natural. Hot.
The water splashing over the edge of the sink signaled it was time to focus back on real life, not romantic kitchen kisses. My cheeks felt hot. Kind of like the rest of me. I cleared my throat and shut off the water.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
Chase didn’t seem to know where to look or what to say. Considering words were his stock in trade, the silence was deafening. We washed the few remaining dishes in quiet. I floundered, trying to find something light to break the tension. Something to put us back on friendly footing. My brain was not cooperating. All I could think to say was, “How’s that for research?” I cringed. We packed up the rest of Chase’s things, neither of us brave enough to break the quiet. Chase cleared his throat. “So, I’ll see you for the wedding? Two more weeks, right? Shall I pick you up?”
We made our arrangements and moved toward my entryway. I thanked him again for cooking with me. As we reached my front door, he turned his back to it, his arms full of leftover ingredients and his mixer. “I had fun tonight.” He gave me a shy smile. “Especially the dishes. Maybe we can do it again sometime?” he asked.
“The dishes?” Did that mean he didn’t regret our kiss, apologies to the contrary? I swallowed down my uncertainty and channeled the sultry confidence I’d gained in dance class. “Or the kissing?”
Chase’s chest expanded as he took a deep breath. “Both. If you’re game.”
I relaxed at his obvious uncertainty and let a small smile tilt my lips up. It was reassuring to know I wasn’t the only one struggling to find footing after our kiss in the kitchen. “Sure. Especially if it means you’re cooking.”
He gave one last smile before disappearing into the night with his things.
Later that night, I was getting ready for bed when my phone buzzed with a text from Chase.
Chase: The dishes are looking at me dirty again. Want to come over and help me with mine?
Tamra: You’re on your own this time. They don’t do themselves.
Chase: Now you tell me. I’ve been doing it wrong this entire time. Thanks for setting me straight.
Tamra: There are some things you do right ...
Chase: Groan. Don’t tell me. I give good hugs?
Tamra: LOL. Something like that.
Chase: No, wait. Something about my pasta attachment? You’re going to give me a complex. Speaking of which, sorry for making it weird tonight. To be clear, I was sorry for almost flooding your kitchen. Everything else was perfect. Better than I imagined.
I bit my lip. My instincts would be the death of me, but I couldn’t resist teasing him.
Tamra: If only the kitchen were the only thing that got wet.
Chase: ...
Chase:
Chase: ...
Too direct. I’d scared him away. The bubbles of his return text kept appearing and disappearing.
Chase: If doing the dishes was a warmup, I can’t wait to dance together at the wedding. This time, without a saucepan chaperone between us. I’ve already seen evidence of your incredible moves ...
I laughed at his last words, ignoring the pinpricks of heat his promise left behind.
