“Do you want something to drink?” It’s a benign question, plus, it’s hot out. “Water? Iced tea? Iced coffee?”
He nods, leaving it up to me to awkwardly lead the way to the kitchen. It’s just down the hall and around the corner.
I’ve been to Wilder’s house. It’s not the kind of place most celebrities would own, but it is lovely. It’s mid-century with sloped ceilings, original kitchens, and a big pit sunk into the floor in the living room area for entertaining—I think? He also has an impressive studio, but that’s the only part of the house that’s been touched. The rest is just well-preserved.
This place?
It’s a bit of everything. It’s an older split-level house, and my mom and I have slowly been hiring contractors to renovate, but slow is the keyword. She doesn’t like people in the house whenone of us isn’t here, and given that she works just about every day, there’s zero work being done here when I’m away. The house is functional, just outdated. But it has a brand new kitchen and bathrooms, because those were must-haves. The yard is also spectacular as my mom blows off steam by gardening.
Wilder’s house is also a gazillion square feet, but I refuse to be anything but proud of our country-style kitchen. It’s small, but not that small. We went with sage green custom cabinets with glass inserts, copper ceiling tiles, a matching copper sink, and butcherblock countertops. We picked light oak hardwood flooring. We wanted to add character to the house, even if it’s not a castle or brick, stone, or stucco like so much of the architecture here.
It feels incredibly crowded with Wilder in here. He stops on the other side of the island, while I pretty much race directly to the coffee maker and get a pot brewing.
My hands are shaking, so I spill grounds all over the counter.
I can feel his eyes burning into my back.
I spill water all over the place too, and nearly drop the glasses straight out of the cupboard.
Then I fumble with the cream and milk from the fridge.
I swear it’s ten thousand degrees in here, even though the central air is pumping.
“My mom gets off work in an hour and a half,” I whisper-yell over the burbling coffee maker. “I told her I’d make dinner. I was going to put a roast in, peel the potatoes, and bake buns. Uh… I…”
“You like cooking.”
I have to turn around, but it’s a mistake because I get another eyeful of Wilder’s tight red pants. It’s not like he could have changed them in the past four minutes, but I’m still mentally unprepared for the hotness level.
I quickly get my eyes back up to his face.
I’m also mentally unprepared to go there, but alas, it’s better than staring at the danger zone of his pants, where his package is clearly defined, compliments of them beingthattight.
That was a statement, not a question.
“I do like cooking,” I mutter-parrot.
“I didn’t know that.”
“No.”
“Does anyone?”
I shrug. “Not really. I like to make things less about me and more about my job. More about everyone else.”
Woof Woof Dog lumbers into the kitchen, his tongue lolling out. His food and water dishes are under the island overhang. He’s followed in by Pumpkin, who comes in at the speed of orange cat light, hits the counter, scatters all the papers I had on there all over the place, skids, tries to catch himself, hangs off the island like he’s grasping the edge of a cliff, and then lets go. He lands right on his rump instead of his feet, gets up, gives me a scathing look as though I’m somehow responsible for his embarrassment, and races back off.
Wilder stares at me, and I stare back at him.
“You need to be gone before my mom gets home.”Wow.Classy. I whip around and snatch the coffee pot off the maker long before the drip has stopped. Droplets sizzle down onto the hot plate. I pour it into two mugs to let it sit and shove the pot back under the stream.
“Can I… help you with anything?” Wilder asks.
I whirl and duck down, gathering all the scattered papers and turning them face down so Wilder can’t see what I was doing earlier. Not that looking for a job is shameful or a secret. I straighten slowly, my face flaming, my heart pounding, my chest feeling like a cage, and my whole body slick with sweat caused by finally giving in to the realization that it’s utterly unfair that a man like Wilder exists. He’s not perfect, but he’s great in somany ways. He’s a total freaking ten in my books, and I’ve had years to subliminally register all the ways he’d be myperfectmatch.
He’s still always going to be untouchable.
“Can I help you with dinner?” he clarifies politely when I’m clearly not tracking.
