Page 18 of Playing the Field
“Great,” I mutter, looking away. This is not what I need right now, the distraction of a roommate who wants to rile me up as I’m finding my footing.
I take another sip. By now, I’m feeling the warming effects of the alcohol, and I welcome the assist to unravel my jangled nerves around Hunter.
I never would have called myself a scotch drinker. I’m barely a drinker at all, except for a strawberry margarita or a mojito on a girls’ night out. And here I am on my second drink of the night. But something about the way the scotch burns my throat and warms me from the inside out is very soothing.
The company isn’t too bad either. Somehow, drinking the same thing as Hunter makes me feel connected to him in a tiny way. That makes me happy.
A few birds perched high in an oak tree beyond the house seem to be in a competition, each trilling a different set of notes and waiting for a response. For a moment, I get lost listening to them and almost forget where I am. This is the first time since I came to Los Angeles that I’ve been aware of nature in the way I am back home. It’s also the first time I acknowledge the thought that I could like it there.
“I have a question. Where did you learn to cook?”
“Back in middle school. I’m from a big family. My mom corralled us all into different cooking duties out of necessity. She couldn’t come home from work every night and cook for five hungry guys without a few sous chefs. So we all pitched in. I liked it, so I did it more than some of my brothers.”
And now I like him even more.
This is silly. He’s a guy. You have a brother. It’s the same.
Except it’s not the same because he’s as hot as molten lava and sets fire in your veins.
Letting out a long exhale, I wrangle my self-control. “I reallyappreciate you cooking dinner. I was about to microwave a baked potato, which qualifies as gourmet fare for this girl.” My voice sounds normal again, and I remind myself that I’m a capable woman with a masters degree in computer science who can certainly handle one dinner with my brother’s friend without going to pieces.
The next inhale cements that idea, and I finally start to relax. I dare a glance at Hunter’s face and find him eyeing me.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “A baked potato?”
“Oh. Yeah. Does that not meet with your approval, soccer star?” I don’t know where the teasing tone came from, but it’s too late to edit once the words are out.
“It’s not much of a dinner. Side dish, maybe.”
“Only maybe?”
“Depends what you put on it.”
I don’t think before answering. “Butter, sour cream, and bacon.”
His smirk widens into a full smile, but he doesn’t comment.
“And what’s wrong with that?” I ask.
“Sounds delicious. But I’m in training. Can’t do the sour cream and butter.”
“Never?” I’m aghast. “And it’s worth it to you?”
Now, he laughs. “Worth it to be paid to play soccer? Yeah, I can make the dairy sacrifice during most of the week.”
I give him a side-eye. “Most of the week? What happens during the other part of the week? There’s still a chance you can redeem yourself.”
“There are cheat days. I’m not a saint.”
I nod as he opens the grill hood, and the full effect of his cooking floods the deck. I can’t help closing my eyes as I inhale. “If your cooking tastes as good as it smells, I doubt you’d need to cheat much. Don’t tell Kyler, but I might even be willing to makean exception to my meat and potatoes ways to try something else.”
“I swear, not a word.” He mimes locking his lips and tossing away a key. “If you answer a question for me.”
Panic hits me because I hate agreeing to answer a question before I know what it is. “Um, sure.”
“Relax, I’m not going to try to unearth your darkest secret.” He chuckles. I relax a tad. “Yet.” I panic again.
