What the hell was he doing? After the creek-bank moment he thought he’d gotten clarity.
Gina DeRose was off-limits.
First, because she was his mother’s client. Second, because she was involved with another man. A married man. And third, because he didn’t particularly like her kind.
“Not really.” She sank into one of the barstools. “In fact, I’m pretty shitty. Last I looked, I lost two thousand Twitter followers. My Facebook wall is covered in hate posts. And don’t even get me started about the memes.”
He could only imagine. “Not good for your bottom line, huh?”
“Nope.” She looked so defeated that he almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
She went to the refrigerator, took out a casserole dish, and set it on the counter while she preheated the oven. When he pulled back the foil she said, “It’s baked ziti. I made it yesterday, but it’s usually better the second day. Where have you been, anyway?”
“Work trip,” he lied because he didn’t want to discuss Angela right now.
“What kind of work trip?” she pressed.
“It’s a long story.” He took another pull on his beer and reclaimed his stool at the kitchen island. “And I’m done with work for the day.” He gave her a pointed look.
She dropped it, launching into a litany of complaints about being exiled to Timbuktu. “There’s no place to buy decent cheese around here. And good almond paste? Forget about it.”
“I don’t know about almond paste, but there’s a goat and sheep farm on Cattle Drive Way where they make their own cheese. Technically, they’re not allowed to sell it to the public. I think it has something to do with it not being pasteurized. But I’m guessing a crafty woman like yourself could get your hands on some. You won’t be disappointed.”
She perked up and just as quickly lost her enthusiasm. “I can’t be seen in public, remember?”
“You went to the kitchen store.”
“In a hat and glasses with the rest of the badly dressed tourists. But at someone’s farm? I’d look like a freak.”
He’d seen her in her getup. Not a freak. More like a Hollywood type, trying to hide her identity, only to call more attention to it. He knew the drill; he’d grown up in Beverly Hills, after all. Probably not far from where she’d grown up. They definitely hadn’t gone to the same schools—his was private—because he would’ve remembered meeting Gino DeRose’s daughter.
“What? You want me to go there and buy the damn cheese for you?”
She flashed her TV smile. “Yes, please.”
“And what will you do for me?” He hitched his brows.
The oven bell dinged and she slid the baked ziti in. “Feed you.”
“You do that in exchange for my kitchen. Time is money, honey. You want me to buy you cheese, you’ve gotta do something for me in return.”
“Like what?” She lifted her chin in challenge as if to say, bring it on.
About a thousand things, all of them sexual, came to mind. “I don’t know yet. Give me time to think about it.”
“Take all the time you need,” she threw back.
He got another beer out of the fridge and his stomach growled. “Can I have a slice of that bread?” He nudged his head at a loaf wrapped in a towel, resting on the countertop.
She cut a few pieces, arranged them on a bread plate, and slid it over to him. “Eat at your own risk.”
He grabbed the butter out of the fridge, slathered a pat on one of the slices, and took a bite. She hovered over him, watching.
“Nice and soft, just like Wonder Bread,” he said as he chewed off another bite.
She snatched the plate away and elbowed him in the arm. He chuckled because he liked getting a rise out of her.
“It’s too tough, isn’t it?”
