Chapter Seven
Alyssa knew Jason’s suggestion that she might change his mind about meeting her parents was simply a ploy for a home-cooked meal. Well, she was ninety-nine percent certain of it.
But if there was even a one percent chance that she might be able to change his mind, she had to take it.
And even if he was playing her for a free dinner, she figured she owed him that much for not exposing her deception to Diego. Plus, she liked to cook, and cooking for Jason gave her an excuse to prepare something she wouldn’t generally make for herself.
Of course, that meant a trip to The Trading Post, Haven’s all-purpose general/grocery/liquor store. Lizzie Cartwright was working the cash register and, as she scanned the items, immediately wanted to know who Alyssa was cooking the special meal for. She tried to convince the woman that she was just experimenting with a new recipe, but as she paid for her groceries, she could tell that Lizzie didn’t believe her.
Still, she’d prefer to be the subject of speculation rather than gossip, and if she told anyone that she was cooking for her upstairs neighbor, the rumor mill would be churning before she got home and got her groceries unpacked. Of course, if she’d been thinking clearly, she would have gone to Battle Mountain to shop and avoided exactly this scenario. But she hadn’t been thinking straight since she’d kissed Jason.
Which was another reason she should abandon her plan—or at least her efforts to enlist his help. Because spending time with him and pretending to be infatuated with him could lead to a real infatuation.
She covered the skillet and set it in the oven to keep the chicken warm, checked the potatoes and added the washed and trimmed asparagus spears to the tray. She minced some fresh garlic and warmed it in a small pan with olive oil, then poured the warm oil into a shallow bowl, added oregano, black pepper, balsamic vinegar and fresh Parmesan.
When everything was ready, she touched up her makeup. Just a quick brush of powder to eliminate the shine from working over the stove, a touch of mascara to her lashes and a dab of gloss on her lips. And then she changed her clothes, too.
She hadn’t planned to dress up. Just because she’d been manipulated into making dinner didn’t make this a date. On the other hand, jeans with frayed cuffs and an old T-shirt were perhaps a little too casual if she expected him to give any consideration to her potential as a girlfriend—even a temporary one. So she pulled on a tunic-style blouse over a long skirt, added a metal chain-link belt and a pair of chunky heels and tried to ignore the butterflies fluttering in her tummy, because this wasn’t a big deal. This was just a woman sharing a meal with a man she saw almost every day.
But planning the menu, shopping for groceries and preparing the food somehow made the simple act of sharing a meal feel more like a date.
Except that she didn’t date guys like Jason.
He was too good-looking, too charismatic, too self-assured. And definitely too egotistical. She couldn’t believe his suggestion that she’d made up the phony boyfriend story as an excuse to kiss him! She was still appalled by the idea.
On the other hand, if even half the rumors around town were to be believed, some women had gone to extreme lengths to get close to one of Haven’s most sought-after bachelors. And sought-after bachelors like Jason definitely didn’t date girls like her.
So she needed to relax and remember that this was just a friendly meal over which she would make a half-hearted attempt to convince him to go along with her fake dating plan, and he would, ultimately, refuse. At the end of the evening, he would thank her for the meal and say good-night, then go back to his own apartment without a kiss.
Yes, it would definitely be smart to end the evening without a kiss.
But it wasn’t what she wanted...
* * *
It was more of a negotiation than a date, but Jay found himself stopping at The Trading Post to pick up a bottle of wine and a six-pack of his favorite beer anyway. Then he made a second stop at Garden of Eden, the local flower shop, where he took too long surveying the array of options before finally selecting a mixed bouquet of mostly orange and yellow blooms.
When he finally got home, he showered quickly, then realized he’d forgotten to shave before heading to work that morning. He took an extra few minutes to raze the stubble from his jaw and knocked at Alyssa’s door at 6:02 p.m.
He exhaled an audible sigh of relief when she answered the door. “Good—you’re still here.”
She frowned in response to the unorthodox greeting. “Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the one morning I was two minutes late for our run, you were at the end of the street before I caught up with you.”
“That’s because starting out late on my run would have thrown off my entire schedule for the day,” she pointed out.
He offered her the flowers.
“Oh.” She looked at the blossoms wrapped in decorative paper as if she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them.
“Now you say ‘thank you’ and put them in some water,” he suggested.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the bouquet.
“You’re welcome.”
She stepped away from the door so he could enter.
He followed her to the kitchen, where she bent to look in the cupboard under the sink, emerging with a glass vase that she tipped under the faucet to fill with water.
“This is for you, too.” He handed her the bottle of wine when she finished with the flowers.
“You’re observant,” she commented, noting that the label matched the one on the bottle they’d been drinking the other night.
“I brought beer, too,” he said, holding up the six-pack in his other hand.
She took the beer from him and put it in the fridge. “Thirsty?” she guessed.
He grinned. “And hungry. I skipped lunch.”
“There’s bread warming in the oven and dip on the table.”
“Bread and dip?” he echoed dubiously. “That’s what’s for dinner?”
She chuckled softly. “No, it’s an appetizer.”
“So what’s for dinner?” he asked.
“Chicken marsala with oven-roasted vegetables.”
“I guess you know how to make more than chili,” he noted.
“I do,” she confirmed. “And I like to cook.”
“So...if you were dating someone, how often would you cook for him?”
“I don’t know.” She pulled a tray of bread from the oven, then began transferring the slices to a basket. “It would probably depend on how often he takes me out to eat.”
“You’re supposed to be convincing me to go along with your boyfriend plan,” he reminded her.
She waved a hand dismissively. “That was last night. Today, I’ve accepted that you’re unwilling to be convinced.”
“But you made dinner for me anyway?”
“I like to cook,” she said again. “Plus, you fed me last night, so it seemed like a fair trade.”
She gestured for him to sit, then set the basket of warm bread on the table.
“Do you want a glass of wine or a beer?”
“I’ll have a beer—if it won’t be an insult to your chicken.”
She popped the top on one of the bottles, poured it into a glass and set it on the table already set for two with fancy dishes, gleaming cutlery and linen napkins.
“When I finagled a dinner invitation, I really didn’t expect you to go to so much trouble,” he told her.
“It wasn’t any trouble. I love these dishes and I hardly ever get to use them.” She peered into the window of the oven door, checking on whatever was inside. “And I should have asked you last night if you have any food allergies.”
“No allergies,” he told her as he dipped a piece of bread into the shallow bowl of oil and vinegar and spices.
He popped the bread into his mouth, and the flavors exploded on his tongue.
“This is delicious,” he said, dipping his bread again.
She took a slice from the basket, tore off a piece and dipped it. She nodded as she chewed. “It is good.”
“You haven’t made this before?”
“I’ve made different variations of it,” she admitted. “I often tweak recipes I find online to make them my own.”
She opened the bottle of wine, poured a glass.
“Aren’t you supposed to drink white wine with chicken?”
“Asks the man drinking Icky,” she noted.
He lifted his glass. “Beer goes with everything.”
“And this pinot noir pairs nicely with the marsala.”
He selected another piece of bread from the basket. “What would you have been eating for dinner tonight if you weren’t cooking for me?”
“Probably chicken,” she said. “But more likely just baked in the oven and served on top of a salad.”
He made a face. “Girl food.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I am a girl.”
“I noticed,” he assured her, his gaze skimming over her in a leisurely and thorough perusal. “I very definitely noticed.”
She chewed on another bite of bread.
He wondered if the flush in her cheeks was from the heat of the stove or the sexual awareness that simmered between them.
“There’s a rumor that Adventure Village is adding a go-kart track to its offerings this summer,” she said.
“Are you interested in go-karts or just trying to change the subject?”
“Just making conversation.” She opened the oven door, then pulled out the tray of vegetables and the pan of chicken.
“Fingers crossed, the track will be ready by the first of June,” he said.
“That should keep you busy through the summer.”
“It’s keeping me busy now,” he admitted.
She arranged the food on two plates, carried them to the table. “Then it’s probably a good thing that I’ve decided to recast the pretend boyfriend role.”
He surveyed the plate she set in front of him. The chicken and potatoes looked and smelled delicious, but he was wary of the green stuff.
“I’m not a fan of asparagus,” he said, poking it with his fork.
“You’ve never had my asparagus,” she pointed out to him. “Try it.”
He picked up his fork and knife and sliced into the chicken instead. “And what do you mean—you’ve decided to recast the role?”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about this today,” she told him. “And while I understand now why Liam might have some reservations about pretending to be a Blake—or Channing—especially after your snarky comment the other night—”
“What snarky comment was that?”
“—I think,” she continued, ignoring his interruption and his question, “with the right incentive, I can get him to go along with my plan.”
Jay scowled. “What kind of incentive are you planning to offer?”
“I don’t think it would be appropriate to discuss those details with you.”
His brows lifted.
Color flooded her cheeks. “Ohmygod—no! Not... No!” she said again. “How could you even think...”
“You can’t blame my mind for going there,” he said. “You mentioned an incentive, and that would be a definite incentive.”
“Uh...thank you?” she said dubiously.
“It was a compliment,” he assured her.
“Well, I only intended to offer to help Liam with a...situation,” she said, reaching for her wineglass.
“Heather Cross still trying to lure him back?” he guessed.
“What do you know about Liam’s relationship with Heather?”
“Haven’t you lived here long enough to know that there are no secrets in Haven?” He popped a bite-size potato into his mouth.
“Apparently not.”
“Well, believe me, that’s a mess you don’t want to get in the middle of.”
Alyssa sighed. “I’m running out of options.”
“There’s always the truth.”
“You met Diego,” she reminded him.
“And the guy is seriously infatuated with you,” he acknowledged.
“My mother’s fault,” she said. “I’ve done nothing to encourage him, but he refuses to believe that I’m not interested.”
“And you figured shoving another guy in his face would do the trick?”
“Desperate times,” she said.
His brows lifted. “That’s the second time you’ve said that you kissed me because you were desperate.”
“And because Liam wasn’t there,” she reminded him.
“Now you’re shoving another guy in my face,” he noted.
“Liam’s not ‘another guy’—he’s the one who was expected to be my boyfriend.”
“You mean pretend boyfriend.”
“No one was supposed to know that part,” she reminded him. “And since you’ve already made it clear that you have no intention of maintaining the charade or meeting my parents, why are we even having this conversation?”
“I’m reconsidering,” he told her.
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re inherently distrustful.”
“And maybe you don’t seem like the kind of guy who would be swayed by chicken marsala.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so, either,” he acknowledged. “But this chicken is delicious.”
“Thank you,” she said.
But it wasn’t really the chicken that had made him reconsider his position. Aside from wanting to mend fences with his buddy, her willingness—even eagerness—to turn to Liam Gilmore for help was probably the biggest reason he’d decided to help her out.
Maybe it was petty, but it was true. As much as Jay had never wanted the boyfriend role that Alyssa was offering, he was even less inclined to let Liam Gilmore fill it.
“Of course, I would have some conditions if I was to go along with your plan,” he said to her now.
“Such as?” she asked warily.
“A home-cooked meal like this twice a week for the duration of our phony relationship.”
“You expect me to cook for you on a schedule?”
“I’m horribly incompetent in the kitchen,” he confided. “And eating microwaveable meals gets tiresome day after day.”
“I’m sure it does,” she agreed.
“Even two good meals a week would help break up the monotony,” he said, his tone imploring.
“One a week,” she countered.
“Two would benefit you as much as me,” he told her.
“How do you figure?”
“Because I’d be saving you from a boring menu of grilled chicken and salads.”
A smile tugged at her lips, but she came back with another counteroffer. “Three meals over the course of two weeks.”
Though they both knew that he was negotiating from a position of power, he admired her refusal to cave to his demands. “That’s acceptable,” he finally decided.
She offered her hand, as if to seal the bargain, but he shook his head.
“That’s only the first condition,” he told her.
“What else do you want?” she asked.
“Reciprocity.” He picked up the bottle of wine and topped up her glass.
“You want me to meet your parents?”
“Ha! No. I want a date for Matt’s wedding.”
“Who?”
“Matt Hutchinson—one of the guys I was with at Diggers’ the other night.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“July 14.”
“That’s more than two months away,” she pointed out.
“You plan on dumping me before then?”
“I’m thinking it’s more likely you’ll meet someone else you’d rather take to the wedding before then.”
“How and when would I meet someone else when I’m going to be spending all my free time with my adoring girlfriend?”
“I don’t do adoring,” she warned him. “And my parents wouldn’t believe it if I tried.”
“Pity,” he said. “But the truth is, a wedding can be a tricky event for a single guy. If he shows up alone, most people think he couldn’t get a date.”
“No one would think you were incapable of getting a date,” she assured him.
“A compliment?” he wondered.
“A fact.”
“Going solo also makes a man vulnerable to the advances of the single women who desperately don’t want to be at a wedding alone.”
“I have no doubt you could fend them off, if you really wanted to,” she said.
“I’d rather not have to,” he said. “And the problem with asking a casual girlfriend to attend a wedding is that she inevitably thinks the invitation means something more than just a date.”
“So you’re asking for three home-cooked meals over the next two weeks and the option of a date for your friend’s wedding in July,” she noted. “Anything else you want?”
He thought about her question for a minute, considering various creative demands to add to his list—most that he knew she would refuse. In the end, he only said, “Dessert?”