Page 84 of Conflict
FOUR DAYShave passed since Shane and I drove back to Atlanta together. There’s nothing like starting a new relationship with a four-hour road trip, especially when all you want to do is devour the man sitting in the driver’s seat. Not that Shane did so much as kiss me since after the wedding. Even when I tried one last time to get a little handsy at the airport, he simply chuckled, swiped his lips across my cheek, and gave me a breathtaking smile that’s kept me going since we said our goodbyes.
Turns out he was right. I’ve done practically nothing but think of him all week long, and the anticipation of tomorrow night is the only thing keeping me going.
That and the distraction of my friends. Except, sometimes, that doesn’t even help.
Cheyenne’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts. “All right, you’ve had a dreamy expression on your face since you came back from Tennessee, and Bryan won’t tell me what’s going on.”
Because Sawyer’s in New York—coincidentally or perhaps not so much—Cheyenne’s somehow finagled her way into the weekday rituals Bryan and I have developed in the past few months. After what started off as a proverbial tennis match of “what do you want to eat?” and “I don’t care, what do you want to eat?” we set up a cooking schedule we’ve become comfortable with.
Bryan cooks Mondays and Wednesdays; I get Tuesdays and Thursdays.
It’s boiled down to this:
Man-Meat Mondays (Bryan’s term, of course). I initially suggested Meatless Monday, but he wasn’t having it. This usually consists of…meat. He grills or smokes meat every single Monday, rain, shine, and even snow. I’ve had more steak, pork, bacon, and even bison since I’ve lived with Bryan than I’ve had in my whole life. Not that I’m complaining. He at least usually pairs it with a salad or some type of vegetable. And hey, not cooking after a long day at work on a Monday is pretty darn fantastic.
To counter-balance all the meat from Mondays, I decided against the predictable Taco Tuesday, much to Bryan’s chagrin. Seafood Tuesday doesn’t sound as nice when it rolls off the tongue, but once Bryan had a taste of my miso peanut butter salmon, he hasn’t complained once about seafood on Tuesdays.
Bryan chose to stick with alliteration with Wicked Wednesdays. When he first told me this, I wasn’t sure what to expect. What it turned out to be, however, was basically comfort food Wednesdays. Wicked because his homemade biscuits and gravy are more calories than I need in an entire day, but they’re so freaking good that I can’t say no. I’m not sure if Bryan got his cooking skills from living with two women or before it. If he did, I cannot thank them enough.
And I round out the week with ethnic food on Thursdays. This all started when Bryan mentioned he’d never had pho—only the best meal on the planet—and ever since I’d made it my mission to teach the man there was more to eating than meat and Southern comfort food. So far, so good.
So tonight, it’s tapas night—Asian style. I know it’s traditionally Hispanic, but tapas sound so much better than finger food. So tapas it is. Since she’s been here every night this week, I made Cheyenne in charge of the wine. She didn’t disappoint when she showed up with sake. We’ve already had our fill of chicken satay, crab spring rolls, bacon-wrapped water chestnuts (a total hit with Bryan because, well, bacon), lettuce wraps, and gyoza. And probably a little too much sake.
“Hello, Earth to Alyssa.” Cheyenne’s grinning at me.
Bryan’s rolling his eyes beside her. “You might as well spill, Lyssa,” he tells me. “She’ll never give up.”
Cheyenne goes to smack him on the side of the head, but he ducks. “Since you and Cori haven’t gotten your heads out of your asses yet, I have to live vicariously through someone else’s romance.”
“My head’s been outta my ass for a long damn time, Cheyenne.”
I lift my glass in mock salute. “The man’s right. He cooks, he cleans, and he’s head-over-heels in love with the woman. She’s the one whose head is buried beneath the sand.”
“Right, not talking about she who shall not be named anymore.” She turns to me. “Now, you… Now, I love sake as much as the next person, but it doesn’t make me look like a lovesick fool. What’s with the face?”
Bryan, of course, knows about Shane because of the wedding. He doesn’t know what happened after the reception, and he hasn’t even asked. But when I told him I was riding home with Shane, I’m pretty sure he got the message. Now, however, he looks as eager as Cheyenne.
“I met someone.”
She leans forward like a dog waiting for a bone. I’d like to keep it simple, but judging by the look on her face, that’s not going to work.
My phone chimes before I can answer. It’s on the coffee table between us, and she doesn’t want to invade my privacy, her eyes keep darting to the screen.
“Go ahead,” I tell her, waving towards my phone, knowing that it has to be a text from Shane.
She pounces like a cat in heat. Her eyes wander across the screen. Then she looks up at me. Then back at the phone. Then back at me.
“It’s about freaking time!” she squeals, jumping up and practically tackling me in a hug. She pulls back and places her hands on my shoulders. “Seriously. This issoamazing. Oh my gosh, we have to double date!”
“Wait, what do you mean ‘it’s about freaking time’?” I ask, completely confused.
Cheyenne lets me go and plops back onto the couch, folding her legs, excitement pouring off her. “Shane came to the office looking for you.” She looks at Bryan. “Remember that day? Alyssa was gone, but you were in there putting a note on her desk. Something about dinner plans, I think. Whatever it was, Shane got jealous. It was so obvious.”
Bryan’s brow crinkles in thought. Then he snaps his fingers. “I knew he looked familiar at the wedding.” He turns to look at me. “Wait a minute. You’re dating the CFO of Wellington Enterprises?”
I bite my lower lip, ignoring the blush rising on my cheeks. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal? You do realize they’re our stiffest competition on the Filiatrault account?”
