Page 19 of The Heartbreakers
I slowly looked down at our hands, not sure of what to do. A nagging thought ran through my head.Don’t get too close! After tonight, you’re never going to see him again.But it was hard to pull away. The tingles that were shooting up my arm felt too good to let go of, and Oliver didn’t seem to mind.
“Bond, James Bond,” he muttered to himself. With his free hand he was pretending to hold a gun as he peered around the corner.Screwit, I thought and smiled. I was going to enjoy tonight and worry about my heart later. “All clear,” he muttered again.
We cautiously continued down the hallway like any good spy would until we reached a set of metal doors with circular windows that revealed the kitchen beyond.
“What are we doing here?”
“Dinnertime,” he said and rubbed his stomach. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” Oliver shoved the doors and they swung open with ease. We were blasted in the face by thick, hot air that smelled of fried food.
It was well past dinnertime, but the kitchen was bursting with activity. I watched as a woman in a hairnet chopped up carrots, her knife a flashing blur. Meat sizzled on a nearby grill as a cook flipped it over. A boy with a mop and bucket zoomed right by us, water droplets spraying everywhere. He was hurrying to clean up a carton of milk that had spilled on the floor.
“Are we allowed to be in here?” I asked. I wanted to leave before someone noticed us and we got kicked out.
“Of course,” Oliver said, like it was perfectly normal to stroll into a hotel kitchen. “Xander has some really dangerous food allergies. We always stay in the same hotels, and the kitchen staff learns exactly what he’s allergic to. I’ve gotten to know everybody who works here.”
As if on cue, one of the cooks shouted at Oliver. “Perry, my man! How’s it going?”
Oliver grinned at me before turning back to the cook. “It’s going great, Tommy,” he answered. “How about you?”
I smiled and bit my lip as I listened. It was nice to see him interacting with regular people like he wasn’t someone famous.
“Same old, same old. The rest of the guys coming down to see me?”
Oliver shook his head and rolled up his sleeves. “Not tonight, but I’m sure they’ll be down for breakfast,” he said, and I watched in confusion as he washed his hands in a nearby sink. What the heck was he doing?
“They better,” Tommy joked as he turned back to stir something simmering over the stove.
When he’d finished scrubbing his hands, Oliver turned to me. “I kind of have this thing for cooking,” he explained. “You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”
“Um, no…” I said slowly, completely confused.
“Great,” he said, cutting me off. “You just wait here. I’m going to go whip us up my favorite.”
I stared after him as he made his way over to a huge refrigerator and began pulling out ingredients. Was the lead singer of America’s most popular boy band about to cook me dinner?
He was.
After finding some empty counter space and spreading out the different food items, Oliver grabbed a knife and a cutting board. When he started to chop up a potato, I realized the photo opportunity I was missing and reached for my camera. As stealthily as possible, I took a few steps back and snapped some shots of Oliver working before he noticed. The potatoes went into a fryer, and while he waited, he started to slice something green. The food didn’t take long, and when he was finished, he packed everything into a paper bag.
“Ready?” he asked and grabbed my hand again.
“Uh-huh.”
Instead of heading toward the pool like I thought we would, Oliver led me out the back door of the kitchen. “Grab the stop,” he instructed as we stepped out into the warm summer night. “The lock on the door gets jammed sometimes, and we don’t want to get stuck out here.”
Bending over, I scooped up the wooden block and shoved it in the door before it closed. Oliver sat down on the concrete steps, and when I dropped down next to him, he placed the food between us. I had no clue what he’d made, but a grease stain was already creeping its way up the brown bag, and I knew whatever had made it would give me a heart attack.
“So, James Bond, what do you have for us?” I could feel my stomach grumbling, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten dinner, and just the smell of something fried was enough to make my mouth water.
Leaning over, Oliver unwrapped the bag and pulled out a Styrofoam box. “Why don’t we start with this before it gets cold?” he said, placing it between us. He opened the box to reveal the source of the grease as steam poured out. It looked like french fries, but they were covered in a white sauce with shredded cheese sprinkled on top. “I had this in Dublin during our European tour. Now I can’t get enough of it.”
“What the heck is it?” I asked, feeling less hungry. I wasn’t normally a picky eater, but whatever it was looked disgusting. Maybe I shouldn’t have let Oliver cook for me—just because he enjoyed it didn’t mean he was any good.
“Garlic cheese chips. You’re never going to look at a fry the same way again.” Oliver picked up a loaded fry, shoving it into his mouth before anything fell off. A piece of shredded cheese stuck to the corner of his mouth.
“Um,” I started, not sure how to tell him. “You got something right here…” I used my thumb to brush the edge of my mouth.
“Oh.” Oliver licked his lips. “Did I get it?” Momentarily, my gaze lingered on his mouth and I wondered how it would feel if he pressed his lips against mine. “Stella?”
