Now
When I woke up on Saturday morning, it was with an unfamiliar feeling buzzing around my mind. For a disorienting moment, I didn’t know what it was, and then slowly I realized . . . I was looking forward to something. I wasn’t waking up in dread; I was actually anticipating the day.
And it was all because Tate Durham was coming over to spend the day with me.
I lay still for a few minutes, mentally clamoring to find that safe and dependable foundation of depression and pain—the place that reminded me nothing could end well, because I didn’t deserve happiness or even contentment. I’d clung to that bedrock for over a year now, and I wasn’t ready to leave it yet. I knew that was why I’d resisted Tate’s easy, friendly charm the night before; he threatened my stability and equilibrium more than anyone had in a long, long time.
Tate was risky, because he made good things seem as though they were within my reach. Hope wasn’t a gift I was entitled to or even desired. The small voice inside me that argued with me about that—the voice that said I knew I was being ridiculous, that of course I deserved hope and happiness and all the wonderful things that really living might bring me—also agreed that Tate was dangerous. . . because as much damage as Matt had done to me, I had a sneaking terror that a guy like Tate could do even more.
He wouldn’t mean to hurt me, but he could. The pain Matt had inflicted on me had been largely intentional; he’d never shied away from cutting me deeply, and I’d been fully aware that it gave him some sort of sadistic pleasure. Those were the times I still allowed myself to remember most often. Those other brief episodes, when I’d seen glimpses of real vulnerability . . . those were what I worked the hardest to bury. When they furrowed upwards into my consciousness, usually in the form of dreams, I ended up curled up in bed all day, doing whatever I could in order to forget again.
Those were bad days.
Don’t leave me, Gia. Please, baby. I can be better.
Sucking in a deep breath, I tossed off the covers and threw my legs over the side of the bed. Movement often helped derail the bad thoughts, and this morning, I had something to get me motivated. When Tate had dropped me at my front door last night, he’d been vague about what time he planned to come over today. With any other guy, I’d assume that meant I shouldn’t expect him before mid-afternoon, but my gut told me that with Tate, there was every possibility he’d be over at daybreak, probably with donuts in hand.
With that in mind, I hustled myself into the shower, washing my hair quickly. I’d kept it cut short since high school; because I was, as Quinn diplomatically put it, petite, longer hair tended to overwhelm my face. Plus, I’d never had the time or patience with fussing over things like curling brushes, flatirons and so on. Most of the year, I simply towel-dried my head and ran my fingers through the fine strands. In winter, if I had to go out right after a shower, I might be forced to blow-dry my hair a little, but even then, it didn’t take long to make me look semi-decent.
I spent a few extra minutes under the water shaving the necessary parts of my body, all the while telling myself that it was just because I hadn’t bothered to do so all week, not because I expected anyone—least of all Tate Durham—to see or touch those parts of me. And I took the time to smooth my favorite body cream over my arms and legs, because it was winter, and I hated the itchiness of dry skin.
I’d just slid on a pair of well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved thermal shirt when I heard the knock at the door. Glancing at the clock, I allowed myself a smile; I’d been on-target about Tate being here early. It was just now ten. I congratulated myself for getting up and moving when I did. I wished I’d had a few minutes to straighten up the apartment, but in all honesty, it didn’t matter. The place was small, cramped and dingy, and it would’ve taken me a whole lot longer than a few minutes to change any of that.
When I opened the door, a surge of awareness hit me like a freight train. If I’d thought that spending time with Tate the night before might render me immune to my body’s primal reaction to him, I’d have been dead wrong. This morning, he was even hotter than he’d seemed last night, if that were even possible. The ends of his hair curled a little bit, probably from his morning shower. He’d shaved, and although I found scruff on a man’s cheeks attractive, his smooth face was undeniably irresistible.
But it was his eyes—those bright green eyes that drank me in like I was the cup of coffee he’d been craving this morning—they were what made it hard for me to find my breath. I stood there with my hand on the door, staring up at him, unable to speak or move for the space of several heartbeats.
And then he smiled, and that damn dimple popped out, shaking me from my reverie.
“Good morning, sunshine! Glad to see you’re awake. I was half-afraid that I might have to drag you out of bed.” From behind his back, he lifted a white box tied with a string. “I brought breakfast, since I was pretty sure you didn’t have anything on hand. It’s my favorite cheese Danish, from the bakery in my hometown. And it’s amazing.”
I smirked a little as I stood aside to let him in. “Danish. Well, I was close.”
He glanced down at me questioningly as he came inside. “Close?”
I shrugged. “I was thinking you’d probably bring donuts. But Danish is pretty close to my guess. And it’s the principle of it, anyway—I figured you’d come bearing breakfast.”
Tate shrugged out of his worn leather jacket and deposited it on the back of a kitchen chair, and I saw that in his other hand, he had a canvas bag, which he set on the floor. “My motto is, if you show up with food, there are not many people who will turn you away.”
Shutting the door, I locked it out of habit and frowned. “Did you really think I might turn you away, even if you didn’t bring me breakfast?”
He paused. “I didn’t want to take the chance.” Setting the box down on my miniscule table, he added, “Does that make me sound pathetic?”
“No.” I shook my head. “But it makes me sound like a total bitch. I probably owe you an apology for how I acted last night, when you were just trying to be a nice guy.”
“You weren’t a bitch.” His voice was gentle. “You were just reacting to a surprising set of circumstances.”
I pulled a knife from the drawer and set out to saw off the string that kept the bakery box closed. “Tate, you don’t have to be so nice to me. I already think you’re probably too good to be real. I know I probably come across like I’m about to splinter into a million pieces, but I’m tougher than I seem.” The knife slipped off the string and rammed into the palm of my other hand. “Damn!”
“Are you hurt?” He reached over my shoulder and grasped my hand, turning it carefully, probably looking for a gaping flesh wound.
“No.” I closed my fingers, hoping he didn’t notice the small tremor. He was close to me, the heat of his body radiating against my back. “Luckily, my knives are all really dull. I got them at a thrift store, and they suck. But at least they keep me from stabbing myself. Probably safer that way. I’m not sure I should be trusted with sharp objects.”
“Yeah, you might be onto something.” He let go of my hand and leaned down a little further, gripping the string on either side of the knot and jerking. It came apart immediately. “There we go. Got some plates? And how about coffee?”
“Uh, coffee? Like, the kind you add hot water to? Because I know I don’t know have that. When I want coffee, I stop at the cute little shop on the corner and tell the hot guy there exactly what I want, and he makes it happen.”
Tate grunted. “I knew I should’ve brought some with me. Well, do you have anything to drink? Tea bags? Juice? Milk?”
I thought for a minute. “Oh! Quinn gave me some kind of herbal tea as part of my Christmas gift. It’s in the cabinet. Will that work?”
“Depends. Will you swear never to mention to any of my teammates that I drank herbal tea? They’d revoke my man card.”
“Your secret is safe with me. If you want, I can run down to the coffee shop. It won’t take long.”
“No, the tea is good.” His mouth twisted a little. “I’m not risking losing you—uh, your company to the so-called ‘hot guy’ who makes your coffee magic happen.” Tate framed the words in air quotes.
I opened my mouth to reply and then shut it again. I’d been about to say something that might’ve come across as flirty, and I didn’t want to go down a path that would lead Tate into thinking I was interested in more than . . . whatever this was. Friendship, in this context, sounded like it was a poor second-best to something else—something I refused to acknowledge. And Tate hadn’t exactly been flirty. He’d bordered on it, maybe, when he’d called me by those cheesy endearments, but then again, that could just be who he was. I didn’t know him well enough to be sure.
And there was the rub. I didn’t know Tate Durham very well, and as much as he’d said Leo had talked about me, Tate didn’t know me, either. It was likely that he knew the surface story, about the girl who’d been Matt Lampert’s on-again, off-again girlfriend for almost four years at Carolina. But he didn’t know the dirt, the shameful secrets or the parts that I hoped could stay hidden forever.
The weird and unsettling thing, though, was that I liked the idea of getting better acquainted with Tate. I was curious about how deep this streak of goodness and honesty really ran. My life had been devoid of that rare sort of decency for too long, and part of me craved a validation that it really still existed.
Drawing in a deep breath, I pointed to the cabinet. “If you find the tea, I’ll put on the water to heat. Oh, and I do have two mugs—they’re on the shelf above the sink.” Bending down, I retrieved a small saucepan from the cubby next to my miniscule stove and pivoted on my foot to face the sink.
“Where’s your kettle?” Tate frowned at the saucepan. “Wait a sec—never mind. You don’t have a tea kettle, do you?” He’d squatted down to find the tea, and now he rose, holding the small flowered canister. Shaking it, he opened the lid and took a sniff. “Yeah, you definitely can’t tell my buddies that I drank this. It smells like girls. It’s not one of those teas for women problems, is it?”
I bit the corner of my lip to keep from giggling. “Women problems? Are you talking, like, cramps and periods and stuff like that?”
He looked pained. “Please. Remember I was raised as an only child, no sisters, raised by a man who’d grown up in an age where guys didn’t ever think about that kind of—stuff. I prefer it remain a mystery.”
I set the pot of water on the stove and turned on the burner beneath it. “What’re you going to do if you get married someday, and you have to deal with ‘that kind of stuff’ with your wife? And your daughters, if you have them.”
“I’ll think about that then. Right now, I don’t have to.” He jiggled the tea canister. “This is probably a silly question to ask someone who doesn’t own a tea kettle, but do you have either a strainer or something to put the tea into? Otherwise, we’re going to be drinking bits of flowers and leaves.”
I held up one finger. “I actually do have a strainer. Quinn put it in the basket with the tea.” I pulled open a drawer and rooted around for a few minutes. “Here it is.”
We stood in companionable silence as the water heated. When it began to bubble, I clicked off the burner and carefully poured it through the tea-filled strainer. Tate pulled out the strainer, dumped the wet tea into the trash and then refilled it for the second cup. Once both mugs were filled with tea, Tate carried them to the kitchen table while I found plates and forks.
“Hurry up, or I’ll eat it right out of the box.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “I’m starved. I had to smell this all the way over the bridge. It was killing me.”
I snorted. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d bought two and ate one before you got here.”
He nodded, his eyes narrowing. “That would’ve been an excellent idea. I was too focused on my destination to think about my stomach when I was in the bakery. I’ll have to remember that for next time.”
The casual way he referred to ‘the next time’ warmed me and made me nervous at the same time. I hid both by keeping my eyes firmly on the pastry as I sliced us easy pieces of it.
Tate had inhaled his before I finished my first bite. “Oh, my God. This is so good. You were right—best I’ve ever had.”
He cast me a hooded stare. “That’s what I’m going for, baby.”
The way he was looking at me, coupled with the words, was so dang cheesy that I couldn’t help a snort of amusement . . . that quickly devolved into a full-out belly laugh. To my relief, Tate chuckled along with me.
“Too much, huh?” He tossed up the hand that wasn’t currently forking the Danish into his mouth. “I guess what my friends say is right. I got no game.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I sipped my tea and then hissed a little when it burnt my tongue. “A guy like you—you must have had lots of women in your life. That doesn’t happen without at least a little bit of game. More than just on the football field, too.”
Tate cut himself another piece of the flaky cheese Danish. “Not really. I dated a little in high school, but I was really focused on my school work and football. I knew I had to get a scholarship for college if I didn’t want to graduate with a shit-ton of student debt. Pops didn’t want me to have that hanging over my head. So I had a lot of friends, but I never got serious with anyone.”
I nodded. “Okay, I get that. But then in college, you had fun, right?”
“Uhh, yeah.” He was suddenly very interested in staring down at his plate. “Sure. I had fun, but maybe not the way you’re thinking. I went out with friends a lot. I hung out at parties sometimes, if I was in the mood. But I still hit the books pretty hard, and I still focused on football. I knew I wanted a career after I graduated, and I knew how much competition there was going to be for that.”
I leaned my chin on my hand, resting my elbow on the table. I was starting to think . . . but no. “Okay, you’re saying you didn’t have time for a steady girlfriend. For a relationship. Right? But you hooked up. You weren’t, like, a monk. Were you?”
Tate cleared his throat, still not meeting my eyes. “Well . . . if by a monk, you mean someone who trains seven days a week, studies all the time, goes to bed early by himself every night and doesn’t do much else, then yeah, I guess you’d call me a monk.” He flickered a glance up to me. “But it wasn’t a hardship. I’ve always been the kind of person who can focus on the prize in the future and make sacrifices in the present if it’s going to give me a better shot at winning that prize.”
There was an odd timber to his voice when he said this, something that grabbed my gut and shook my core. I swallowed and forced myself to sound unaffected. “We’re talking school and football here, right?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Okay. Mostly, I guess. But it applies elsewhere.” His green eyes were steady on me.
I decided to steer the conversation back to what I’d been trying to suss out. “You couldn’t have been all work and no play back at Carolina, though. With all the girls who lusted after the football players? I saw what they put Leo through in his last two years there, even though he never acted on anything, to the best of my knowledge. And I had first-hand experience with how far women went just to say they’d been banged by a Carolina player.” The stab of pain I’d come to expect when remembering Matt and his inability to resist the lure of a star-struck fangirl was actually duller than it usually was. Maybe I was beginning to get over that part. Maybe. “Please don’t tell me I was the lucky woman who dated the only man-whore on the Carolina team.”
Tate looked pained. “Yes, there were a lot of girls who made it crystal clear that they were down to do anything with a football player. Leo got the brunt of it after that article went viral, but he hated it, mostly because it drove Quinn away. And no, Matt wasn’t the only one who had a reputation for giving the fangirls just what they wanted.” He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “But I learned pretty fast that if I kept my head down, didn’t make eye contact and avoided parties where that kind of crap went down, they didn’t bother me. I didn’t have girls texting me nudie pics or stalking me on campus. Once I made it clear that I wasn’t interested, no one really cared about me.”
I considered everything he’d said. “Okay, Tate.” I leaned back in my chair and twisted one leg beneath me, studying the man sitting across the table. “I’m just going to come out and ask, and if you want to tell me it’s none of my damn business, no biggie. Are you . . . have you ever been with a woman? I mean, have you had sex? Or are you a virgin?”
My answer came quickly when his cheeks flushed red, but to his credit, Tate didn’t drop my gaze. “I’ve kissed girls, and I had some heavy make-out sessions when I was in high school, but . . . no. I’ve never had sex with a woman. Or a man, either. Yeah, I’m a virgin.”
Even though I’d begun to suspect as much, hearing him confirm it shocked me. It was just so . . . unexpected. Here was this guy who was undeniably hot, with a body that would make most women drop their panties in a heartbeat, the face of a naughty angel, and a downright perfect personality, and he was saying that he’d never succumbed to their charms?
“Breathe, Gia.” Tate’s tone was wry. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“Of course, it’s not.” I tried for nonchalance. “It’s a lifestyle choice, right? A personal preference. Just how things worked out.”
“And not as uncommon as you might think. At my club—well, we call it a support group—there are plenty of men who you’d never expect haven’t done the deed, and yet, there we are. All members of the Virgin Football Players of America.”
I rolled my eyes. “You had me going until you gave it a name. I’m not saying it’s weird or anything. Just—unexpected, I guess. From someone like you.”
“Someone like me, huh?” He was teasing now, leaning forward. “What does that even mean? If I were a guy who didn’t work out or who had unfortunate skin issues or . . . I don’t know, body odor? Then you’d nod and say, well, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“That makes me sound incredibly shallow,” I protested, even though I was almost afraid he was right. There were definitely people whose virginity wouldn’t have shocked me. Not all of them were necessarily unattractive, either. It was just a vibe some people gave off.
“I don’t think you’re shallow at all. I just know that most people do stereotype, and being a football player doesn’t fit the accepted norm for someone who chooses to wait for sex.”
“Do your friends know?” I wasn’t sure why I was so curious about Tate and his lack of sexual experience, but there was no denying that I was.
He shrugged. “I haven’t announced it, if that’s what you’re asking. And we don’t sit around in the locker room, having deep heart-to-hearts about this kind of stuff. Some of them may have noticed back in college that I didn’t hook up or party, but now, in the pros, we all have our own private lives. There are definitely a group of single guys who hang together, and then there’re the married family men. I don’t fit into either group. And I’m okay with that.”
He spoke with such easy assurance, not even a hint of belligerence or defensiveness that I believed him. I realized I’d just gotten another glimpse into the Tate Durham psyche: he was someone who was extraordinarily comfortable in his own skin. That was rare.
“You might not believe this, but I’m actually full.” Tate groaned a little and rubbed his stomach. “That really hit the spot. And the herbal tea junk wasn’t half bad either . . . although I still think coffee would’ve been better.” He lifted his arm and glanced at the wristwatch there, and the gesture was so wholly masculine that my breath hitched a little. Tate’s hands were large, and the word that came to the front of my mind when I saw them was capable. They were trustworthy hands.
He was speaking again, and I jerked my attention back to what he was saying. “. . . if you’re ready, we can head over there now.”
“Wait a minute—what did you say? Where are we going?” My eyebrows drew together in consternation.
Tate spoke slowly, repeating what I’d missed. “I said, I thought we could go over to the Italian Market and get stuff for dinner. It was too late to stop at the grocery store last night, and then I didn’t want to take the time this morning to make another stop. Which reminds me.” Leaning down, he lifted up the canvas bag. “I did swing by Target on my way here and picked up this.” He pulled out an extra-large bag of ridged potato chips. “And also this, since you said you were waiting for it.” This time, it was a small rectangular box, with a familiar picture on the front.
“You bought me Veronica Mars?” I couldn’t hide my excitement. “No way! Oh, my God, this is totally what we’re watching today.”
“That’s the plan.” He smiled at me, and I realized he was taking quiet joy in my excitement. “After we go out and get what we need for dinner. I figured it might be fun for both of us to go to the Market. I never get a chance to spend time there anymore.”
“But we had Italian last night.” It was the first excuse that popped into my mind, and even I knew it was a lame one.
“They sell other food there, too. It’s the best spot in the city to get fresh vegetables and meat, and the bread is so good, it’ll make you cry.” He paused and added, “In a good way, I mean. Not in a they-are-out-of-my-chips-at-the-grocery-store way.”
I stuck out my tongue at him. “Ha, ha, ha. I’m so glad you feel comfortable enough to joke at my expense. But I have to tell you—part of the whole junk food and binge weekend experience is not leaving the house. That’s why I shop on Friday night—so I don’t have to leave my apartment or even get dressed before Monday morning. So you’re sort of ruining it.”
Tate winked at me, grinning. “Call it the extra dimension I bring to the weekend. A little added benefit. Besides, you’re dressed now, so you already changed the paradigm. Going out is simply an extension of that.”
Damn. He had a way of derailing all of my arguments. “Fine. But if the whole dynamic is thrown off, we know the fault lies with you.” I stood, picking up my own plate and reaching for Tate’s. He pushed away my hand and instead took my plate.
“Sit down. I brought breakfast, and I’ll do clean up.” He peered into my mug. “Finish your tea. We don’t want all that flower and leaf goodness going to waste, do we?”
“Of course not.” I tried the tea again, found it cooler and drank it, watching as Tate ran water over the plates and fork. He glanced around the sink and then opened the cabinet beneath it.
“Do you have a sponge or a brush or something?”
I shook my head. “No. I usually just use a paper towel.”
He sent me a reproving glance over his shoulder, and I thought he might say something, but in the end, he simply sighed and tore a sheet off the paper towel roll in front of him, scrubbing at the plates and the silverware in turn.
“I know, it’s horrible,” I confessed. “I’m contributing to the landfills and all that shit. Zelda yells at me every time she comes over. But in my defense, I don’t do much cooking or washing dishes.” The truth was that I usually ate my food over take-out containers or whatever packaging it came in.
“Everyone does things his or her own way.” He was being diplomatic. “Remind me who Zelda is?”
“Ah, she was one of my roommates in college. She and Quinn roomed together freshman year, and then the three of us lived together the other three years. She lives here in the city.” I smiled a little, thinking of my friend. “She is absolutely drop-dead fucking gorgeous. Tall, blonde, totally built . . . I’d say I’d introduce you, but she’s kind of seeing someone. I think. Also, she would eat you alive. Zelda’s incredibly smart and very . . . ummm . . . physical.”
Tate carefully unwound a few more paper towels and laid them on the small piece of counter next to the sink. He arranged the dishes on them to dry. I had to hide a grin as I watched him move around my mini-kitchen; he dwarfed everything in there, as though the appliances and drawers had been built for a race of tiny people.
“I think maybe I saw her at Matt’s funeral.” His voice was neutral. “Was she there with a man in a wheelchair?”
I frowned, trying to remember. “I . . . don’t know if Tucker was there. I guess he was, though. He didn’t know Matt that well, other than just through Quinn and me.” A sudden memory took me by surprise. “Actually, I’d forgotten. They did meet, during the summer before junior year. Matt had come up here—he’d been on probation, sort of, since the coaching staff at Carolina said he had to go to summer school and get his grades up, and one of the conditions was that he had to live with his grandparents. We hung out a couple of times with Zelda and Tucker. That was when they were sort of dating, but not telling anyone.” I gnawed at my lip. “So if you saw a smoking hot blonde with a dude in a wheelchair at Matt’s funeral, yeah, that was Zelda and Tuck. I have no memory of him being there, but I guess he was.”
Tate nodded. “Huh. Yeah, she was pretty, I guess.” He leaned one hip against the end of my counter and made a point of looking at his watch again. “All right, woman. Unless you have any more reasonable objections, get your shoes and your coat, and let’s go buy some food.”
I hadn’t been to the Italian Market on 9th Street since I was in elementary school, when my parents used to take us over at least once a month to shop. My dad’s mom had lived in the city, so we usually combined a shopping trip with a visit to her house. As Tate and I wandered the market, pausing by booths and vendors here and there to take a closer look or snag a sample, memories assailed me. I could almost hear my mother calling to my sisters to slow down and stay with us. I could feel my dad’s hand holding mine, keeping me safe from the jostling of the crowd. And I thought I even recalled my mother and father walking together, his arm around her as he stole a kiss. While I didn’t think I was making it up, it seemed unlikely and foreign. I had precious few memories of my parents when they weren’t fighting or locked in stony, angry silence.
Tate seemed to know his way around the place. He pointed out his favorite vendors, and he made me try bits of bread torn off sample loaves, chunks of cheese, slivers of prosciutto and capicola and spicy samples of sopressata. When I protested that I couldn’t eat another morsel, he grabbed my hand and hauled me to a small stand from which was wafting the most tantalizing aromas.
“Heyyyyy, if it isn’t the big football star. Lookit, Angel. Look who’s come by to see us.” The big man behind the makeshift counter grinned broadly. “Whaddaya doin’ here, boy? Shouldn’t you be liftin’ all the weights and makin’ them muscles bigger?”
A small woman with salt and pepper hair and a smiling face bustled forward. “Leave him be, Dante. Stop picking on the boy. Tate, sweetie, how are you? How is your grandpa? Is he here with you?”
“Nah, not today, Angel. I brought a friend over. We’re shopping for dinner.” Tate drew me up to stand next to him. “This is Gia.”
“Ohhhhh . . .” Angel smiled at me before her eyes darted back to Tate’s face. “She’s so pretty, sweetie. Look at you two.”
I coughed a little and tried to pull my hand away. “Oh, we’re just—we’re not—”
“Here, try this.” Dante shoved a small paper sleeve toward me. On top was a piece of cannoli, stuffed with ricotta and tiny chocolate chips and dusted with powdered sugar. My mouth watered.
“Go ahead. Eat it. It’s not poisoned.” Angel waved her hand, and I gave into the pressure, sinking my teeth into the crisp shell and smooth filling. A moan escaped me before I knew it.
“I know. It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Tate smiled down at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Angel and Dante are true artists. They make the most perfect cannoli I’ve ever had.” He bent his head closer to my ear, murmuring. “Don’t tell them we had some last night at Amico’s. Angel would be crushed if she thought I enjoyed anyone else’s cannoli.”
His breath was warm on my neck, and I shivered. To cover the effect his nearness had on me, I lifted the last piece of cannoli to his lips and shoved it into his mouth.
Unfortunately, I didn’t stop to consider how this looked to the couple who were watching us, beaming. Nor did I think about how it would feel when my fingers slid between Tate’s lips. Something I couldn’t decipher flared in his eyes, even as his tongue darted forward to pull in the delectable tidbit. I felt the tip of it graze my fingertip, and a heat I’d nearly forgotten I could feel surged through my veins.
“Delicious.” He rasped out the word and licked his lips. “Best I’ve ever had.”
“Of course, it is.” Angel sniffed. “Now, I’m going to box up a couple for you. Whether you save them for later or eat them as you walk, that’s up to you two. What are you shopping for here, anyway?”
Tate braced one hand against the counter, the muscles in his arm bulging even through his jacket. “I’m making dinner for Gia tonight. I was thinking pork tenderloin.”
“Oh, then you want to go Esposito’s.” Dante bobbed his head. “Best meats at the Market. And Carmen Lerro for the potatoes and vegetables. They have the freshest.”
“Good thinking. Thanks for the advice.” He accepted the small white box Angel handed him. “And I’ll tell Pops you were asking for him.”
“Bring him with you next time. Tell him it’ll do him good to come see all his old cronies here. We miss his ugly mug.”
We waved good-bye to Dante and Angel and continued on our way, meandering through the growing crowd. I had to raise my voice to be heard.
“So your grandfather used to bring you here?”
Tate nodded with a slight smile. “Yeah, almost every week. He grew up in Philly, and he wanted me to have some experience with the city, even though he likes living in Gatbury.”
“My nonna lived just a little bit away from here. Before my parents split up, we used to come over to see her and stop at the Market fairly often. Maybe we were here at the same time.”
“Maybe we were. Just think . . . back when we were little, maybe you spotted a really cute little boy when you stopped to get some cheese or bread, and he smiled at you, and you thought, hey, now that guy has moves!”
I smirked. “Funny, I don’t remember anything like that. I must’ve blocked it out.”
As Dante had suggested, we stopped at Esposito’s, where Tate examined all the pork roasts carefully before choosing one which the butcher wrapped in white paper. And then we picked up small white potatoes, green beans, onions, garlic and berries at Carmen Lerro’s. Finally, we went to a small grocery shop on the edge of the Market so that Tate could buy an assortment of other items, mumbling to himself as he did so.
It was mid-afternoon by the time we left the Market and began to make our way to the station to catch the commuter train back to my apartment.
“Oh, wait—I need to stop in here.” Tate came to an abrupt halt in front of a chain discount store.
“What in the world can we possibly still need?” I rested my hands on my hips. “Look at this. If you buy anything else, we won’t be able to drag it and our asses back to my place.”
“Trust me, toots.” Tate tapped me on the nose. “I know what I’m doing.”
I’d given up on chiding him for the random endearments he dropped on me all the time. It was a losing battle, as he always had a ready explanation for why, exactly, it was appropriate for the moment. And my feet hurt too much to stand out on the sidewalk arguing with him. So instead I heaved a deep sigh and followed him inside.
Tate made a beeline for the sundries aisle, where he immediately picked up a dish brush, casting a meaningful look over his shoulder at me as he did. I rolled my eyes but kept my mouth shut. I didn’t raise a fuss about any of his choices until he tucked under his arm a small box with a picture of an electric mixer on the front of it.
“Wait a sec,” I objected. “You’re not buying me appliances.”
He flickered his gaze toward me. “Do you have a mixer, Gia? Any kind of mixer?”
“I have a wooden spoon. I think. It satisfies all my mixing needs.”
“That spoon won’t work for what I have in mind.” He held the box out toward me. “This is cheap. I promise, I’m not breaking the bank. And if it makes you feel better, I can take it home with me when I leave tonight.” When I didn’t answer right away, he added, “It’s a mixer, Gia. It’s not a lifetime commitment. Or even a weekend-long commitment. C’mon. Don’t be unreasonable about this. It’s not charity or sympathy or a pity gift. It’s a mixer. That’s all.”
He made it very hard for me to form a rational argument. “Fine. But that’s it. Nothing else. I’m walking to the check-out counter now, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be right behind me.”
He grinned and gave a small bow. “Your wish is my command, mistress.”
“Hmph.” I tried to find some dignity and keep from smiling as I headed to the front of the store.
After Tate had paid for his purchases, we walked back to the SEPTA station, eating the cannoli as we went. I’d asked if we should wait to have it after dinner, but Tate shook his head.
“I’m hungry now. We missed lunch, so this is like a little consolation prize.”
“We ate our weight in samples, Tate. That was lunch. I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to eat dinner as it is.”
He patted my arm, as unfazed as he always was. “That’s okay. We’ve got all this binge watching to do this afternoon. Plenty of time to let the food digest and be ready for dinner. We’ll just eat later.”
Later. So that meant he planned to stay all day—and maybe into the evening—with me. I knew that was what he’d said, but I realized as we got on the train, with all the bags hanging from our arms, that I’d been waiting for him to make an excuse to cut and run. I didn’t have delusions about how scintillating my conversation or company was.
We settled into seats on the train as it began moving. After a few moments, I snuck a sideways glance at Tate. He had the bags on his lap, and his head rested against the window behind us. His eyes were closed, and I noticed a trace of powdered sugar lingering on his upper lip, where soft whiskers were just beginning to show—the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow, I thought. For a split second, I was tempted to use my finger and brush it away, but I realized it wouldn’t be a good idea. Touching Tate might raise expectations on his part . . . or make him think I had designs on him. Either prospect gave me a panicky sense in my chest.
Instead, I simply watched him, taking advantage of the opportunity to study his face without him being aware of it. He was relaxed; there was no twitch in his eyelids or tremor in his cheek. His mouth was closed, his lips in a straight line, but even so, even in repose, I imagined I saw a faint trace of the humor that seemed to be with him most of the time. His chin was strong and slightly squared. I wondered what it might feel like to trace it . . .
He was, I decided, the perfect example of calm. I’d heard the word unflappable used about some people before, but Tate exemplified it.
“You’re pretty laid back, aren’t you?” I spoke without meaning to, voicing thoughts that were running through my head.
Tate’s eyes slid open, and he rolled his head in my direction, the corners of his lips turning up a little.
“Yeah, I guess I am. I never saw the point of getting all riled up about something if I can’t do anything about it. And if I can change a situation that bothers me, I should just do it and not make a big deal about it.”
“Were you always so chill?” I didn’t know if I was really curious about Tate or just filling the silence.
“Mostly. There were some times when I got upset about stuff when I was a kid, but Pops would always just say, ‘Worse things happen at sea.’” Tate winked at me. “I’ve got no idea what that means, but I figured it was his way of saying things could always be worse. I guess I internalized that lesson.”
I smiled, too, picturing a young Tate. “You talk about your grandfather a lot. What about your grandmother?”
He shook his head. “She died when my father was in high school. Pops told me that was why he—my father—got into drugs. He was running away from the pain of losing his mom.”
For the first time, I detected the smallest note of exasperation in Tate’s voice. “I take it you don’t buy that?”
“Ahhhh . . .” He looked away from me, staring at the wall on the other side of the car. “I don’t know. I guess I think there’s always a choice, you know? My father wasn’t the only person in the world whose mother died. He had the choice to figure out how to cope with it or to use drugs to escape. He decided drugs would be easier. I don’t judge him for that, but for Pops’ sake, I wish he’d made a better decision. It hurt my grandfather to see his son addicted. I can still see it in his eyes sometimes.”
I noticed that Tate talked about how his father’s self-destruction and desertion had affected his grandfather, not himself. I was reminded of Matt, who had also been raised by his grandparents. He’d seldom mentioned his mom and dad to me, and when he did, it was with derision. He’d called his mother a loser and his father a dick. He’d never known either of them, really; his mom had popped in and out of his early life, but she never stayed long, and I’d gotten the feeling that her leaving had always been a relief.
The train slid to a halt, and Tate stood up, offering a hand to pull me to my feet. “C’mon. We need to get this food put away, and then it’s time for you to teach me about this binge stuff.”
“Holy God. How did I never know about this show?”
Tate rested his head on the edge of my mattress, craning his neck to look up at me. He’d arranged some of my many throw pillows into a makeshift nest on the floor while I’d queued up the first season of Veronica Mars on my television and settled himself there. Even as I’d protested that he was welcome to sit on the bed with me, his insistence that he’d rather be on the floor, where he could spread out, relieved the twinge of unspoken anxiety I’d had about being so close to him.
For the first time since I’d moved into this tiny studio, I regretted that I didn’t have a sofa or any chairs other than the two at my kitchen table. I never had any company, except occasionally Zelda, so my lack of entertaining space rarely mattered.
But Tate hadn’t made it awkward for me. It was almost as though he’d anticipated what might make me uncomfortable and had been intentional about circumventing it. What was more, he’d been enthusiastic about the show, too, asking only enough questions to let me know that he was paying attention and not enough to be annoying.
We’d made it to the end of the fourth episode before I’d hit pause. The sun had just set, bathing the room in the gray twilight, and my stomach was beginning to feel empty. If I was getting hungry, I figured Tate was probably barely hanging on to consciousness.
As if I’d asked, his stomach growled loudly, making me giggle. “Does that mean it’s time to start making dinner?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I was so absorbed in Veronica that I didn’t realize how hungry I was. That, my friend, is the indication of a great show.” He stretched his arms over his head and groaned, his body transforming into one huge, tensed muscle. “So Troy. Tell me she doesn’t stay with him. I mean, I guess he’s okay, but I don’t feel any chemistry between them.”
I hesitated, trying to figure out how to answer without giving anything away. “Well, who do you think Veronica should be with? And don’t say Wallace, or you’re not really a Marshmallow.”
“A Marshmallow?” Tate cocked at eyebrow at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Fans of the show are called Marshmallows. So who do you think?”
“Hmm.” He half-twisted, turning his upper body to face me where I was stretched out on my stomach. “I like Duncan. I know he’s had his moments, and we still don’t know why he broke up with Veronica like he did. That was kind of a dick move. But we know he still cares about her, because he didn’t like seeing her with Troy.”
“You’re not wrong about that. And I think Duncan is a good guy.” I thought for a moment. “What do you think about Logan?”
“Logan?” Tate made a face. “He’s a jerk, a real spoiled little rich boy.” He shook his head. “I hated those kinds of guys back in high school. They acted like they were entitled to whatever they could get, no matter how it might impact others.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I flopped onto my back, feeling a goofy smile spread over my face. “But . . . Logan. I mean, yeah, right now he seems like he’s not that great, but trust me, there’s a lot more to him than what you see. He has depth.”
Tate snorted. “Depth? Seriously? And you actually like this guy?” His green eyes narrowed, glittering at me dangerously. “You like bad boys, don’t you, Gia Capri?”
“Nooooo . . .” I tried to sound convincing, but apparently, I failed because Tate rose to his feet, shaking his head as he looked down at me.
“You do. You go for the dangerous men. Is it the tattoos and living on the wild side that gets you?”
He sounded so completely disappointed in me, with a note of disapproval in his tone, that I couldn’t stop laughing. The harder I laughed, the more serious he tried to look, until I was gasping to catch my breath.
“Stop. Don’t look at me.” I screwed my eyes shut so I couldn’t see him. “I totally don’t dig the bad boys. I’m not a masochist. I don’t seek out people to make my life miserable.” Exhaling long, I let the amusement fade. “They just seem to find me all on their own.”
“I’m not going to even ask you to elaborate on that, not when you’ve just now gotten your breath back. Besides, I need to get that pork on if we want to eat before midnight. Come on, you can sit at the table and talk with me while I cook.”
Before I knew it, he’d gripped my hand again and hauled me off the bed, to my feet. His hand was warm over mine, and I felt an odd tingle where our skin touched. I’d noticed both last night and today that Tate was a tactile guy, never hesitating to sling an arm around me, put his fingers against my back as we went through a door or to take my hand to keep me close. But even though all this exposure to more human touch than I’d had in over a year was a little jarring, it didn’t alarm me. I decided it was probably because Tate was so casual. He never made me feel as though he was building up to something more. He was simply being himself.
“I don’t mind helping you cook. I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can follow orders.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you can, and next time, I’ll take you up on that for sure, but tonight, I’m cooking for you. You get to just sit and relax.”
I smiled up at him. “If you insist, I’m not going to argue.”
“Good thinking. Now have a seat. I noticed you have some white wine in your fridge. Would you like a glass? Like I said last night, I like beer with my buddies if we’re watching a game or something, but I enjoy wine while I’m cooking. Or eating.”
“Sure.”
For the next hour, I sat back and enjoyed the scenery. Tate in the zone as he cooked was really a thing of beauty; he gave me a running commentary on what he was doing and why, and he told me stories of growing up, how his grandfather had taught him to know his way around a kitchen and some of his disasters as he’d learned.
He moved with deftness, spinning from stove to sink to counter with ease. Of course, with the size of my kitchen, that wasn’t difficult. Still, I never saw a misstep, only that same confidence that seemed to exude from him all the time.
Tate kept me so occupied that it seemed like no time at all before he was sliding a plate in front of me.
“Voilà, mademoiselle.” He pointed at the food. “Pork tenderloin with balsamic caper sauce, fingerling potatoes with fresh herbs and garlic and green beans almondine.”
I breathed in the tantalizing aroma. “Tate, this looks amazing. I can’t believe you made this, even though I watched you do it.”
He smiled, that elusive dimple making an appearance. “Nothing to it. But I’m glad you like it.” He sat down across from me, pulling out his napkin to drape over his lap. “Of course, you haven’t tasted it yet. Might look pretty but taste rotten.”
I laughed. “I don’t think so.” Forking off a small piece of the pork, I took a bite, letting it melt on my tongue. “Yeah, this is rotten, all right. Or maybe it’s going to spoil me rotten, because I can’t imagine going back to frozen eggrolls and chips.”
“Stick with me, kid, and you’ll never eat frozen eggrolls again.” Tate dug into his own dinner with the gusto I’d come to expect from him. “Oh, yeah, this is good. The potatoes are done perfectly.”
“Says the chef with great humility,” I teased.
“Hey. I have a lot of humility. But I also think it’s okay to be proud of a job well-done. And this, darlin’, is a dinner well-done.”
“Agreed.” I ate in silence for several minutes, savoring every bite and trying not to pay attention to the voice in my head that was fretting about Tate’s easy promises and affectionate words. He hadn’t made me feel pressured or tense all day, but now that we were here, eating together, there was an intimacy that couldn’t be ignored. I forced myself to think about Matt, to remember that pain and heartache were the only future I deserved.
The more reasonable part of my brain realized how wrong that line of thinking was. My relationship with Matt had never been healthy, and thinking I could hold his actions against every other man I met was crazy. Tate hadn’t given me a single indication that he had ulterior motives. He’d been straight-forward and easy-going, and I’d enjoyed this day more than any in recent memory. Or maybe even longer than that.
Finishing the potatoes, I set down my fork on the plate and wiped a bit of butter from my lip. “Tate, can I ask you something?”
As though he’d been waiting for me to speak, he answered right away. “Of course. Anything.”
“Why are you here? Why did you spend today with me? I’m not going to accuse you of being in cahoots with Leo again, and I’m not saying I didn’t have a good time with you. I did. Maybe the best day I’ve ever had. But I still don’t get why you did it, unless it’s just that you’re that nice a person.”
Tate nodded slowly as he chewed and then swallowed. Following my lead, he set down his fork, laid his knife across the plate and regarded me steadily.
“I promised you that I’d never lie or even quibble with the truth, didn’t I?”
I shifted in my chair. “You told me that you don’t lie. I guess that’s the same thing.”
“Right. And I don’t.” He paused. “Is withholding the entire truth the same thing?”
I considered the question. “In this case, I think so.”
“Okay.” He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, the first sign of nerves I’d seen in him. “Then I’ll be honest.” He took a deep breath, and my stomach clenched. What could be so bad that he was reluctant to tell me?
“The thing is, Gia . . . I just wanted to spend time with you. It’s as simple as that, but it’s also a little more complicated. I could tell you that I’m only interested in friendship, but that’s not a hundred percent true. I do want more from you—or maybe it would be more accurate to say I hope for more with you. I’d like to spend time getting to know you better. I’ve kind of . . . liked you for a long time.”
My forehead knit together. “What’re you talking about? You hadn’t seen me since Matt’s funeral, and before then, we’d only really met once.”
Tate’s Adam apple bobbed as he swallowed. “We met that one night, the first time you came down to Carolina. That’s true. But I saw you when you came down for football games or to see Matt. And I always thought, damn, if only I’d been the one to ask that girl to dance the night we met. If only I’d been a little less patient and a little more—uh, I don’t know—aggressive? Assertive?” He shrugged. “I’m not going to claim that I pined for you every night and cried into my lonely pillow, but I thought about you more than you might expect.” He hastily added, “Not in a creepy, I-stalked-you-in-secret way. And I’m not saying that I’m going to go full-court press on you even now. But when I saw you going into the grocery store last night, it was like . . . maybe this is our chance to get to know each other. To find out if there could be more.”
I realized my hands were gripped together under the edge of the table. “Tate, I don’t know what to say. I like you. You’re a terrific guy. But I’m not in any place right now where I could even begin to think about . . . that kind of thing. I’m a mess. I’m fucked up, and I’m broken. And I can’t see a day in the near future when I’m going to be any different.”
To my surprise, he didn’t flinch. “Like I said, I’m not asking you for anything. I’m not an idiot, Gia. I know that you didn’t ever think of me, or if you did, it was just as one of Leo’s buddies. That’s okay. I don’t have any expectations. Just hang out with me.”
I twisted my fingers. “This feels unfair to you, though. I hate the thought of you . . .” I tried to figure out how to word what I wanted to say without sounding arrogant. “I don’t want you to think there’s a chance when there isn’t, I guess. I’d feel like a horrible person, using you just so I’m not lonely, when I know you’re looking for something more.”
“Hey.” He reached across the table and nudged my chin until I met his eyes. “Gia, that’s my decision. I’m a grown-up, and I’m fully aware of what I’m saying. The way I look at it, worst case, we have some fun. I like you. I’d want to be your friend no matter what. And you know I don’t lie, so you can believe that. This is my choice and my responsibility. I promise that I’ll never blame you or even think less of you if, at the end of the day, we’re good friends.”
“But—”
“Gia, don’t. You’re looking for a reason to tell me we can’t be friends, because you don’t want to feel like you’re taking advantage of me. Look at it this way: almost all the people I knew from high school have moved away from South Jersey. I’m trying to find my niche on this new team. You told me yourself that you don’t really have friends around here, other than Zelda. This could be good for both of us, if you let it happen.”
He sounded so convincing . . . and I was tempted. Being with Tate was easy, and the time we’d spent together over the past twenty-four hours had reminded me how lonely I’d been. I wanted to say yes, even though I had a suspicion that doing so made me selfish.
Maybe I was. But I was tired of being alone, tired of depressing weekends that were the only bright points in my otherwise-drab life. I’d only really known Tate since last night, but today, I’d had fun—actual, legit fun—for the first time in over a year. Maybe I was a heartless bitch, just as Matt had often said. But Tate understood my limitations—or at least he claimed he did, and he still wanted to hang out with me. If we both went into this with our eyes wide open, I didn’t have to carry all the blame.
“So . . . no pressure, either outright or implied, right?” I spoke slowly, feeling my way. “You won’t push me, and you won’t . . . I don’t know, look at me or touch me in ways that could be construed as pressure?”
I expected Tate to agree readily, but he hesitated. “I don’t know if I can promise that. I’ll do my best not to gaze at you soulfully, and I’m not the kind of guy to mope around after anyone, but I can’t say you might not see what I’m feeling in my eyes. Can’t help that.”
I laughed a little. “You know, dude, if you were any other man, when I asked why you were here, you would’ve just fed me the friends-only line. I might not have bought it, but it would have given us both plausible deniability.”
Tate rested his chin on his hand and smiled serenely at me. “I’m not any other man.”
For a solid moment, I felt electricity crackle between us, and I couldn’t breathe. This was new, this hyper-awareness of another person, and I didn’t know quite what to do with it. I stared at Tate as my brain scrambled to figure out what to say or do next.
And then he sighed, breaking the spell.
“Ready for dessert?” He pushed back his chair and reached for my plate, carrying both his and mine to the sink. I cleared my throat and attempted to find normal again.
“Dessert? Need I remind you that we ate the cannoli several hours ago, when you claimed we hadn’t eaten lunch, and you were on the verge of starvation? Or did you buy a cake when I wasn’t looking? Or are you planning to whip something up in the next twenty minutes?”
Tate quirked his eyebrow at me over his shoulder. “Twenty minutes? Does that mean you’re tossing me out at nine?”
“No.” I shook my head and played with the spoon still in front of me. “It was just a figure of speech.”
“Good to know. But to answer your question, no, I didn’t buy any baked goods, and I’m not going to toss something together now. Nothing I have to bake, that is.” He rinsed off the scrubbed the plates with my new dish brush and set them into the drainer before turning to the fridge. “C’mon, woman. On your feet. This is something you can help me with.”
I stood up, watching as Tate withdrew the berries he’d bought. Dumping them into the colander, he washed them carefully before picking up the cutting board he’d used earlier to chop the potatoes.
“I’ll slice these if you’ll handle the whipped cream.” He reached for a knife.
I frowned. “We didn’t get any whipped cream.”
“Sure, we did.” Tate opened the refrigerator again, this time emerging with a small milk carton in his hand, which he set down on the counter in front of me. “Here you go.”
“Just what am I supposed to do with this?” I saw the words on the container. Heavy whipping cream clearly meant that whatever was inside the cardboard could somehow be transformed into the frothy goodness I loved, but I had no earthly idea how to go about making it happen.
“You’re going to whip it.” He winked at me. “Whip it good. I’ll get you started.”
I watched him moving around the kitchen, and I thought again how odd it was that such a large man could have such grace. I was willing to bet that it came from playing football, where I imagined his talent for maneuvering probably paid off.
Within a few moments, I had a small metal bowl, the brand-new electric hand mixer, a bag of powdered sugar and a bottle of vanilla laid out before me. I surveyed all of it with undisguised suspicion.
“Now pay attention, because this is tricky. Here’s the hardest part: dump the cream into the bowl.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ha, ha, ha, Mr. Smarty Pants Chef Guy. I think I can manage that.” I slid my thumb up the small crease and deftly opened the cardboard carton. The cream was thick and velvety as I poured it into the bowl. “Now what?”
“Plug in the mixer, submerge the beaters in the cream, and turn it on. Move it around a little now and then. And that’s pretty much it.” He turned back to his cutting board, slicing the tops of some luscious-looking red strawberries.
Gingerly, I dipped the shiny silver beaters into the liquid and used my thumb to move the switch to on. The small machine sprang to life, whirring in my hand. I held the bowl with my other fingers, staring into it, waiting for magic to happen.
A few minutes later, I was still waiting. “Tate, this isn’t working. It’s still just, like, cream.”
“Uh huh. Give it a little longer.” He didn’t even bother to look at me over his shoulder.
“But it isn’t changing. It’s just swirling around and around.” I raised my voice, in case he didn’t understand how serious this was. I was ruining the whipped cream.
“Yep, that’s how it works.” His voice remained serene and unconcerned.
I kept it up a little longer. “I think we must’ve gotten defective cream. It’s still all liquidy. Or maybe I messed it up.”
“The only way you can mess it up is if you whip the cream too long and it turns into butter. I don’t think you’re in danger of that yet.” He finished cutting up another berry, and drying his hands, stepped over to check out my work. “Okay, turn off the mixer for a minute, and then add some sugar and vanilla.”
I did as he instructed, resting the edge of the mixer against the side of the bowl. “How much?”
“Eh, two or three tablespoons of the powdered sugar and a couple of teaspoons of vanilla.”
I was troubled by his lack of precision in measurements. “Two or three? Which is it?”
Tate sighed. “Start with two. We don’t want it too sweet, just sweet enough.”
“All right.” I flipped through the measuring spoons he’d bought today and found the right one before I carefully measured the sugar into the bowl. Next I poured two precise teaspoons of vanilla. “I did it. Now what?”
“Back to whipping.” Tate used a paper towel to gently dry the blueberries. “Just incorporate all of that into it.”
Setting my jaw, I got back to work, peering intensely at the whirling white that was threatening to hypnotize me. The cream made a pretty design as it ran through the beaters, and it reminded me a little of snow. As a matter of fact, it almost looked like . . .
“Tate!” I flicked off the mixer again. “It worked! It’s thickening. Look!” I stood back so that he could see into the bowl without moving away from his spot at the cutting board.
“Excellent. I knew you could do it. Now keep it up a little longer. It’s not quite ready yet. But watch it, because too long there and it really will turn into butter.”
“Huh.” I squinted down, nearly afraid to look away in case what was in the bowl might suddenly betray me. “Does it honestly happen that fast?”
“Nah. I mean, hypothetically speaking, if you had a stand mixer, and you were whipping cream, and you got distracted doing something else while it was mixing, and you forgot to check on it for a while . . . then yeah, it’s a possibility. But you’re on it.” He scooped all of the berries into a round glass bowl and moved over to stand closer to me. “I think you’re good now. See how it’s forming nice peaks?”
I did see, and I felt an unaccustomed surge of pride. “I did it. I can’t freaking believe it, but I made whipped cream.”
“Yes, you sure did.” He swiped one finger into the cream and stuck it into his mouth. “Mmmmm, and you got the flavor right, too. Just sweet enough.” Before I could protest, he stuck that same finger back into my bowl again.
“Hey! Yuck! No double dipping. You’re going to ruin my masterpiece.” I scowled up at him.
“But I wanted you to have a taste, too.” So saying, he held up his whipped cream-covered finger a few inches from my lips. “Don’t you want to try it?”
My heart thudded a little. I hadn’t done anything like this . . . touched my tongue to any part of any man . . . for a long time. I swallowed and resisted the urge to fan myself. The kitchen was all of a sudden much warmer than it had been.
With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and lifted my mouth to his hand, closing around the creamy goodness. The second the flavor hit my tongue, I forgot all about how it got there.
“Oh . . . my . . . God.” I moaned the words. “That is amazing. So much better than the stuff I get in the can.”
“The real thing always is better.” Tate’s voice was hoarse, and he slid his finger out of my mouth. As I watched, he turned his back to me, busying himself with pulling out two small plates and a couple of forks. I wondered what I might have seen in his eyes if he hadn’t turned away. I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to deal with what whatever might have been there.
“Grab a spoon for your, uh, masterpiece, and let’s eat.” He lifted the berries on the cutting board and set the whole thing down on the table. “Serious conversations make me hungry.”
I rolled my eyes. “Is there anything that doesn’t make you hungry?”
Dragging out his chair, he shot me a wicked smile. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. And lucky girl, you’ll get to find out, because as long as you’ll let me, I plan to spend as much of my free time with you as possible.”
As I sat down to join him at the table, I wasn’t sure if the butterflies in my stomach were from worry or anticipation. Dragging a plump red strawberry through the fluffy whipped cream—that I’d made with my own hands—I decided it didn’t matter either way. For once, I was just going to enjoy myself while it lasted. I’d deal with the inevitable fall-out when it hit me.
And it would hit me. Because Tate might paint a rosy picture, but I knew that nothing good lasted forever.