Page 11 of Her Christmas Fix
She bites down on her lower lip as the simple compliment hangs between us. It seems to spark with things neither of us is willing to say, and not for the first time, I wonder how someone as famous as Monika Graham can think so little of herself.
“I would have thought you’d have a personal chef to handle meal planning,” I say, making my tone light as I stir the sauce she’s somehow managed to both burn and leave cold in the middle.
“I did for a while when I needed to get in better shape for the first Revstar movie. But Riva and I liked having the house to ourselves during my longer breaks. She’d make grilled cheese or quesadillas, and we’d eat at the counter and talk about everything and nothing.” Her voice goes soft. “Those nights were better than eating out at any LA hotspot. Just us. No photographers or industry types. No having to be ‘on’ for anyone.”
I add a few extra spices to the sauce while she drains the pasta—sucking in a harsh breath when she steam-burns the edge of her hand in the process.
My stomach lurches in response, and I grab her fingers to hold them under the cold tap even though she’s perfectly capable of managing that on her own. Her skin is impossibly soft, and when she winces at the cold water, she steps back against me slightly. The move puts her close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral and expensive that shouldn’t smell this good mixed with drywall dust.
“It’s fine,” she protests, but doesn’t pull her hand away from mine.
“Just a few more seconds under the water.”
“How’d you learn to cook?” she asks, and I’m guessing the reason she sounds breathless isn’t because of the burn or thecold water. I’d like to think it has something to do with my hand wrapped around hers, but I’m not that delusional.
“I had the strong urge for home-cooked meals after my last tour.” I turn off the water but don’t let go of her hand yet, checking the red mark on her palm like it’s not an excuse to keep touching her. “I started with YouTube videos and a lot of trial and error. Turns out I’m better at following recipes than I ever was at following orders.”
She laughs at that, and I realize I’m still holding her hand. I let go, stepping back before I do something stupid like press my mouth to hers.
We eat at the small dining table, both of us ignoring the clumpy, overcooked pasta and the fact that the sauce tastes slightly burned despite my efforts to salvage it.
She rolls her eyes when I go back for a second helping. “You’re trying to make me feel better, which I appreciate, but isn’t necessary.”
“It’s…good,” I say, managing to keep a straight face. Barely.
She laughs. “It’s barely edible. Clearly, you’re back on dinner duty, and I’ll stick to the dishes.”
“Did Daniel the Dick ever cook?” Not sure why I bring him up and don’t plan to examine how much I care about her answer.
She laughs again, but there’s a sharp edge to it. “The Dick was all about being seen at the right places with the right people.” She takes a sip of her water. “I used to be into it, too. But somewhere along the way, I realized I couldn’t be just Monika anymore. I was always performing, even at dinner.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was. Is.” She pushes pasta around her plate. “You know something I miss? Grocery shopping. I used to love wandering the aisles, picking out my own produce, getting swayed by the end cap marketing.”
The image of Monika Graham comparison shopping for apples makes me smile. “The Wild Rose Point Market isn’t exactly Whole Foods, but I could use a grocery run tomorrow if you want to come.”
Her face lights up for half a second before reality crashes back in. “I can’t. Someone will recognize me, and then...” She trails off, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Then what?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Who cares if someone snaps a photo of you buying bananas?”
“You don’t understand.” She stands and starts clearing plates, her movements jerky. “One photo leads to twenty. Then the paparazzi show up, asking locals about me and why I’m here and?—”
“Hey.” I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, my hand closing gently around her wrist as she reaches for my glass. “No one in this town is going to sell you out.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Idoknow.” The protectiveness edge to my voice surprises us both. When the hell did her safety become a priority for me? “Wild Rose Point takes care of its own. Right now, you’re under my roof, putting in more than your share of sweat equity to fix up the house. That makes you one of us.”
Her emerald eyes are wide and vulnerable as she meets my gaze, and I realize how close we’re standing. How easy it would be to pull her against me, promise her that I’ll keep her safe from whatever celebrity demons decide to chase her.
“Griffin—”
“We’ll go early. You can wear a baseball cap and sunglasses if it makes you feel better. But you can’t keep hiding, Monika.”
“Why do you care?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
Because you already matter to me more than is safe for either of us, I think but don’t say. Because in three days, you’ve gotten under my skin in a way I never saw coming.
