Everything was coming together perfectly. The chicken was in the oven, stuffed with cheeses and vegetables. The whipped and buttery potatoes were cooling off, and the ice cream I’d picked up for dessert was hardening in the freezer. Paige messaged me to let me know she was on her way over, so I stepped away from the stove to get her present ready.
I wanted this evening to be special for her because she wasn’t just any woman. She was a vibrant, sexy, outgoing woman who didn’t hold herself to the same standard other women did.
She wasn’t high maintenance when it came to her looks, and she had this “fuck off” attitude I really enjoyed. She wasn’t a woman to be messed with, and even though I wanted to mess around with her, I didn’t want to mess with her.
I wanted her to know that I understood the woman of value she was.
I heard her car pull up, and I stashed the present behind the arm of my couch. I quickly changed my shirt before I went over to the door, and I slid it open just as she got to the top of the steps of my porch.
She looked stunning in the outfit she’d picked out. She wore her signature skinny jeans with a flowing top, and her blonde hair flowed well past her shoulders. Her lips glistened with the little bit of lip gloss she had used, but the rest of her skin was completely bare.
I loved that she didn’t feel the need to overdo it with makeup.
“You look wonderful,” I said.
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” she said, winking.
“The chicken still has a few minutes, but everything else is ready.”
“It smells wonderful in here.” She pushed her way right past me, as if she had been over before. There was a familiarity to letting her in and to watching her take in my cabin.
At this point, most women were stumbling with me up the stairs to my bed. They never experienced my cabin or felt any other surface other than the one I was fucking them against.
But Paige seemed to fit well into a scenario I never took the time to imagine: a scenario where a woman was here regularly, filling it with her perfumes and her toothbrush and her scent. A scenario where a woman never left in the morning, but instead, allowed me to make her breakfast. A scenario where a woman would drop in simply because she was in the neighborhood and wanted to see me.
I could picture Paige in that kind of role.
“Would you like some wine?” I asked. “I also have beer.”
“Wine would be wonderful, thank you,” she said.
Her eyes spotted the table I had set up for us. One small candle flickered in the center of the it, surrounded by a bowl of mashed potatoes, a bowl of fruit, and two glasses of water. She turned her head and smiled at me, beaming a radiance that both settled my bones and thundered my heart in my chest.
I could feel every inch of her beauty even though I wasn’t touching a centimeter of her skin.
I walked over to the fridge and pulled out the chilled bottle of Riesling. I popped it open and poured her a glass, then handed it to her before I pulled out a beer. Things were quiet between us as the chicken finished cooking, but when it was done, she was at the stove before I could get there.
“Let me get that,” I said.
“Please. You’ve done enough. Sit.”
She set her glass of wine down on the kitchen counter. As if she’d been here many times before, she bent over with two dish towels in her hands and pulled the chicken out of the oven. I could hear her moaning over the smells, even as she set the stuffed breasts onto the stove.
Then she looked over at me and smiled. “You’ve really outdone yourself. I would’ve been fine with a pizza.”
“Nothing beats a healthy, home-cooked meal.”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “Healthy, huh? You one of those vegan, non-GMO, drink-only-water-or-you’ll-die people?”
“Not really. My mom taught me that taking care of our bodies was our responsibility because no one else would do it for us.” I grabbed our plates and scooped up the chicken breasts.
Paige stared at me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun—”
“It’s okay,” I said, grinning. “I know what you meant.”
She sighed, and her shoulders heaved. I could tell she was beating herself up over the joke she’d just made. I didn’t really know how I could calm her down. She hadn’t offended me—not by a longshot—but I could tell she wasn’t convinced that she hadn’t.
“I promise you, it’s fine,” I said.
“It really wasn’t my place to crack that kind of joke,” Paige said. “It’s just, you don’t strike me as the type to care that much about your food.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, my grin growing into a smirk. “Is it because of the tattoos? Or the beer drinking?”
“Zach, this isn’t funny,” she said.
“Is it the blacked-out motorcycle?” I asked. “Or the fact that I’m quiet?”
“Zach,” she said, groaning.
“No, really. I’m curious. Are men with tattoos who ride bikes and wear leather jackets supposed to eat fatty hot wings alongside their beer?”
“Well, they’re certainly not supposed to eat dainty little salads with two ounces of red wine vinaigrette,” she said.
“I don’t eat dainty salads,” I said plainly. “I eat manly ones.”
She giggled into her wine glass, and I felt the tension deflate between the two of us.
“I’m so sorry,” Paige said, giggling.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I said.
“I just, holy hell, I don’t do this often.”
“You don’t eat dinner often? Our first date said differently.”
“You little shit. I don’t date often.”
“That’s a shame,” I said. “Are the men all blind where you come from?”
“Is that all I’m here for? To be your eye candy?”
“That depends. Can I touch you?”
Her eyes connected with mine as I stood next to the table of untouched food. Her beautiful sea-green eyes danced with mine, and a small blush creeped across her cheeks. I wanted to get my hands on her. One well-placed kiss on the nape of her neck and she would fall into me. I knew that flush, and I knew that look. She was battling something inside.
I wanted her to know that if she lost that battle, I’d be there to catch her and make it worth her while.
“Come eat,” I said. “The food’s gonna get cold.”
“This dinner looks great,” she said as she sat down. “Thank you.”
“It’s not a problem. Bought and paid for. That was the deal, right?”
She nodded. “It was.”
I watched her cut into her chicken before she took a bite. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and the moan that left her lips twitched my cock. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips as a drop of juice from the chicken dribbled out. I had to swallow my tongue to keep from groaning at the sight.
I wanted her lips wrapped around my cock more than I could stand.
“This is a wonderful cabin,” she said, glancing around. “Very rustic.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad someone recognizes its beauty. My buddy Caden likes to give me a hard time about its condition. But when I bought it, it was even worse. I’ve fixed it up in between working, but, I don’t have a lot of time to spend on it, so it’s perpetually a work in progress.”
“It’s incredibly beautiful, and it suits you.”
“It suits my tattoos or my diet?” I asked, grinning.
She threw a grape at me in response.
“Hey, don’t assault the cook. I still have time to take your food away.”
“Unless I pick up the plate and start running,” she said.
“You wouldn’t get to the door before I’d have you in my arms.”
Her eyes fluttered up to mine before quickly looking back down at her plate. She took a bite of her mashed potatoes. “Holy fuck, these are good. They’re practically melting in my mouth.”
“That’s the difference between whipped and mashed potatoes,” I said.
“You could open a restaurant with these recipes,” she said. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“I watched my mother whenever she was in the kitchen, but I mostly learned myself. After I saw her on the—” My eyes locked with my plate, and my mind began to swirl. Was I really just about to tell her that? Was it about to slip out that easily? I could feel her eyes on the top of my head as I speared a piece of watermelon.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
“When you saw her on the what?” Paige asked.
“It doesn’t matter. The point is—”
“Zach.”
Her tone of voice caused me to look up at her.
“Where did you see your mother?” she asked.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because the parent of the opposite gender has the most influence on a child,” she said. “At least according to pop psychology.”
I rolled my eyes at her and her pop psychology. But I decided to see where this conversation would take us.