“Um, to paint?” Islammed my eyes shut at my effort to play cool. What was wrong with me?
His chuckle wasgenuine and rumbly, andGod, why did Iwant to avoid this man again? “No, not to paint. To go on a date. With me.”
I couldn’t think ofthe right thing to say so I sat there silent for way too long. Clearing mythroat I went for totally smooth. “Uh, s-sure. That sounds great.” I stared atmy freezer. Forget the salad. I needed to go straight to the ice cream tonight.
He was unruffled bymy inability to be as cool as him. “Can I pick you up?”
Vera’s plan blaredthrough my head and I sat up with more confidence. “How about I cook for youand we stay in?”
I expected him toargue with me, sure that he’d heard the rumors of my tragic cooking and woulddo whatever it took to escape a meal that could end in death—or possiblyserious food poisoning.
Instead, he let outa sigh of relief and said, “Actually, that sounds amazing. I’d love that.”
Softening, I smiledand opened up all at once, I relaxed into a feeling that this was right, thatthis would be good. Something like anticipation and hope and feelings ofrightness. “How about six?”
“Do you need me tobring anything?”
“Wine,” I told him.“Bring lots of wine.” Because when we couldn’t eat anything, we would at leastbe able to drink.
“See you Sunday,Molly.”
“Okay, Ezra.”
I painted thatnight. Cloudy skies with sun crowned horizons. Eyes that were deep andmysterious and soft. A delicate hand cradled in a strong, masculine one. Allthings that would have previously made me roll my eyes and embitter my cold,cruel, cynical heart.
Now I was halfwayto infatuated and my painting was evidence that I’d lost my mind completely.
And maybe,possibly… my heart.
Chapter Twenty
Sunday night cametoo quickly. One second I’d been dodging Henry at work and spending all ofSaturday working on Bianca’s mural. The next, I had done my hair like whoa,spent thirty minutes picking out the right lip stain, and dressed in my newdistressed skinny jeans and sheer, lacy black tunic with strappycamiunderneath.
My outfit soundedcasual, but it had taken me the entire week to pick it out. Ugh. Why wasn’t thenot-showered-ratty-pajama look in?
Society was theworst.
Feminists unite!
Also, lazy people.
I would also takehomebodies.
Now I stood at mystove, slaving away over spaghetti and meatballs and panicking because Ezra wasgoing to be here any minute. And I knew I had gotten myself into this mess,that it had been my stupid idea, but now that the time was almost here to pushEzra away with my terrible cooking, I found that I didn’t want him to know Icouldn’t handle myself in the kitchen.
Like at all.
I’d even triedtonight!
Spaghetti andmeatballs was something I could usually throw together. I mean, how hard was itto boil water and pour a jar of sauce into a pan? Not hard. Not hard at all.
But I’d taken solong to get ready that I’d gotten a late start on the meatballs. In order tocook them quicker so they could have time to marinate in the marinara I’dbought, I had turned the heat up too high and burned the shit out of them. Theonions I’d tried to sauté with them looked like slimy black slugs. I had beenunder the impression that if I kept cooking the onions they would caramelize.But that theory had been so very wrong.
I was pretty surethey were going to taste like an old cigarette. But I didn’t have time to startover.
They were currentlysimmering in marinara sauce while I prayed that the tomatoes would hide howblackened and unappetizing they were. Not to mention thecharcoal lumpsmeatballs. They were in no better shape. I’d slammed a lid on the pan so Ididn’t have to look at it. Also, to protect my outfit from the spitting redsauce.
It was probablypoisonous by now anyway.
