Page 122 of Snowed In
“You’re cooking dinner?”
“I’m an incredible cook.”
“And so humble,” I croon, following him into the kitchen. “So humble and…”
Okay.
I didn’t even know there was this much food in the house, which makes me think there must be some kind of secret underground cellar that he raided because holy shit.
The table is filled with dishes, all of it far too much for two people, and from the look of it, all vegetarian. Bread and cheese and bowls of different vegetables and salads. Dips and sauces are dotted in between the different foods, and I count at least three, nofourdifferent kinds of potatoes. The man has cooked us a feast.
“What was that?” Christian asks, putting his hand to his ear when I just gape at all. “Did you say something?”
“How did you—”
“It’s all in the plating,” he says, and steers me into a chair before snapping a napkin onto my lap. “And the fact that most of it came preprepared. But let’s pretend I know how to rock a pestle and mortar, shall we?”
I don’t even know where to start, but I decide to just go for the dish nearest me, pilling my plate with sweet parsnips and glazed carrots. The green beans are garlicky perfection, the broccoli a perfect texture. He’s not happy with the potatoes, but to me, they’re perfect, especially when I slather half of them in butter and drown the rest in gravy. He doesn’t touch anything until I’ve finished piling high, even though he must be hungry. But he seems content to just watch me eat, and I’m too busy salivating to care.
“You want to watch a movie after this?” he asks. I give up trying to be ladylike as I eat a cob of corn and instead just start gnawing on the thing.
“There’s a television here?”
“There’s a hidden one in the bookcase.”
“Shut up. No, there’s not.”
He only grins at my amazement. “I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to it.”
“Movie night?” I’m surprised he remembers. “That’s okay. We’ll make do.”
“Even with no projector?”
“Even then,” I say gravely. “Can we build a blanket fort?”
“I’d be disappointed if we didn’t.”
“Can we drink the champagne?”
“You mean the bottles I’ve had chilling in the fridge for three hours?”
I pop a carrot slice into my mouth, eyeing at the dark patio outside. “Can we use the hot tub?”
Christian pauses in digging into the baked camembert, his gaze shooting to mine.
I smile.
* * *
I do not fit into the bikini.
It’s been a few years since I’ve worn it, but it was the only swimsuit of mine Mam still had in the house, and yikes. I spend a whole minute in front of the mirror rearranging it over my breasts, so I’m not spilling out of the damn thing, but there is still a definite risk of a nip-slip tonight.
I even think about wearing a T-shirt over it, but I don’t want to wear a T-shirt over it. I want to wear the hot pink bikini in the big sexy hot tub, and I want Christian Fitzpatrick to look at me while I do it.
I force myself to stop fiddling with the straps and pull on the robe again. It doesn’t help. I grow self-conscious as soon as I leave the room, and by the time I make it down the stairs, I’m seconds away from running back up them and changing. But Christian hears me and calls out, asking me to get the champagne from the fridge, and that’s, like, the number one most important task of the night, so I do. I stride into the kitchen like nothing’s wrong. I get the champagne, I turn around, and that’s when I see Christian Fitzpatrick without his shirt on.
I don’t know what I was expecting.
