Page 24 of Brooklynaire
When I walk into the kitchen, there they are, sitting at the table together. Rebecca is eating a plate of Mrs. Gray’s enchiladas, and my housekeeper is having a cup oftea.
This is the liveliest my kitchen has been in ages. “Mrs. Gray, you didn’t have to staylate.”
“I had a nice chat with the lovely Rebecca, while my Christian is bowling tonight with the boys,” she says, rising to open the oven. “He’s always in a frowsy mood after some pints with his mates. I’d better hurryhome.”
Her back is turned, and Rebecca and I share a furtive glance of amusement. She and I have always been on the same humor wavelength. Where my assistant Lauren is chilly, Becca is warm. Her eyes dance when she hears something funny, and her cheeks pink up when shelaughs.
Not that I have any businessnoticing.
Mrs. Gray puts a plate down on the table for me. “Here’s your portion, Nate,” she says. “Now I must run, too.Toodles!”
A moment later she disappears out the back door, and Rebecca and I are alone together. God helpme.
“Mrs. Gray is something else,” Rebecca says. Then she pushes her plate away. “I couldn’t eat anotherbite.”
“You look better than you did this morning,” I say. Then I play the sentence back in my head and realize that it sounds sort of offensive. Nobody ever accused me of having too muchcharm.
“I should hope so.” Rebecca gives me a little smile. “Sleeping for five hours ought to have somebenefit.”
“Five? Wow. Rebecca Van Winkle.” I pick up my fork and dig into Mrs. Gray’s enchiladas. The woman really can cook. Although I won’t sayI told you soto Rebecca, it’s true that a good night’s sleep cures almosteverything.
“You know…” Becca’s cheeks are a distracting rosy shade. “I didn’t know I was so tired. And it is really quiet here. You wereright.”
“Mmm,” I say, taking another bite. I want her to stay. I want to look after her. But I won’t be pushy. “Did your luggagearrive?”
“Hey,” Rebecca gives me a pointed look. “The luggage thing was a little heavy-handed. My sister left me text messages asking if I’d beenkidnapped.”
“Oh, please.” I’d sent my driver to Becca’s apartment with empty suitcases for her sister to pack. “Ramesh said she was all too happy to help. In fact, Missy asked him to move the crib into your room to give her a little morespace.”
“Of course she did.” Becca sighs. “Nate, this is silly. I can just go home. I’m better rested already. If you’ve reconsidered your invitation, I won’t beoffended.”
As if. Without meeting her gaze, I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. “Stay, Bec. I’m off to DC in the morning, anyway. Get a couple of decent nights’ sleep. It’s goodmedicine.”
“Thank you,” shewhispers.
I give her hand a squeeze before I reluctantly let go. She picks up her drink and I eat in silence for amoment.
It’s hard to pinpoint when I stopped looking at Bec like a friend and started dreaming about her. It started sometime after the Juliet fiasco, when I couldn’t help but notice how Rebecca was always there in my life, making every day better. I started leaning in when we talked, and the scent of her perfume began to distract me. Her husky laugh made mehard.
I’d wake up in the night and realize I’d been dreaming of undressing her. My conscience always woke me uprightbefore we did the deed. One minute we’d be skin to skin, my hands wandering her body. And then I’d wake up sweaty and aching. And feeling guilty aboutit.
Here sits a big cliché, ladies. I’m just another lonely nerd who’s hopelessly in lust with his assistant. Oldest story in the world. “Want a beer?” Ioffer.
“I wish. But I’m not supposed to drink. Or read. Or watch TV. Or put myself in the position of beingjostled.”
“Those are all my favorite things!” I joke. Besides, I know just how I’d jostle Rebecca. With mycock.
Giving myself a mental slap, I get up and open the refrigerator, scanning the contents. Mrs. Gray has a little too much time on her hands. The beverages are practically alphabetized. “Orange juice? Soda? Seven different flavors of sparklingwater?”
“Surprise me,” shesays.
I choose a can of raspberry seltzer for her and a lager for myself. “Want to play…?” I hesitate. Ping-Pong won’t work for someone who frequently loses her balance. “Scrabble?” I suggest instead. “It’s not a screen. And you won’t bejostled.”
“But I will be soundly beaten by your big brain,” she points out. “We’d better keep the betting to aminimum.”
I grab a package of cookies out of the pantry. “We’ll wagerthese.”
“That works,” Becca says, giving me a smile that melts my insides. She just does it for me, with her big personality in that curvy littlebody.
