“Moe’s is the other direction,” she pointed out, when he turned down the street that led to his condo.
“We’re not going to Moe’s.”
“But you said?—”
“Nope,” he interjected. “Just said we were going to grab some dinner. I didn’t say where.”
McKenna huffed an impatient breath, letting him know she’d intended to use their friends as a buffer. “So where are we going?”
“My place. I’m going to cook for you.”
She quickly shook her head. “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, the whole point of fake dating is to be seen.”
And with that statement, Tank knew exactly where McKenna stood on this thing between them. She was still determined to play make-believe.
He wasn’t thrilled about that, given how incredible that night between them was, but Rome wasn’t built in a day, so he’d go along with it.
For now.
“I get tired of the cameras, Mouse. Tired of always putting on a show. I haven’t seen or talked to you in a week, and it’s obvious we need to get things straight between us. So tonight, I just want it to be us. Okay?”
She hesitated for just a moment, then conceded. “Okay.”
He smiled, reaching over to place his hand on her thigh. He gave it a quick squeeze, then left it there. He waited for her to pull her leg away, so he was pleased when she didn’t.
“I thought you said you couldn’t cook,” she said.
“I said I didn’t cook, not that I couldn’t. There’s a difference.”
“Guess I should have realized that. Those scrambled eggs of yours were light and fluffy and tasty. Mine are always the consistency of rubber.”
He winked at her. “The secret is butter.”
McKenna giggled, and they fell silent again. This time, however, it felt easier, less stressful.
Tank parked outside his condo, then reclaimed her hand, holding it as they rode the elevator up to his place.
McKenna’s eyes widened when they walked inside. “Your cleaning lady clearly came today.”
He shook his head. “Nope. She was here yesterday. I tidied up this morning after I grabbed groceries for our dinner tonight.”
“Really?” she asked, her tone the perfect blend of surprised, suspicious, and maybe even touched.
Tank booped her nose. “Really.”
“You realize I’m only here because you tricked me.”
“You’ve seen me on the ice enough to know I don’t always play fair. Just to win.” Tank’s condo was an open floor plan with the one great space containing his living room, dining room, with the kitchen separated by an island rather than a wall. He pulled out one of the stools by the island for her and she sat.
Walking to the fridge, he pulled out a bottle of Chardonnay. He noticed that seemed to be her favorite. “Wine?”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, please.”
He poured them both a glass, then tapped his against hers. “Hope you like stir-fry. I make a killer fried rice.”
“That sounds great.”
Tank fired up his wok, then pulled out the ingredients he’d prepped earlier, tossing the onions, carrots, and mushrooms in when the oil was hot.
