“I… uh…” I yanked my eyes back up. “My oven just gave up the ghost, and I’m hosting Friendsgiving dinner.”
He glanced at the raw turkey, then tilted his head when he looked back at me. “I need to know this because…?”
“Your kitchen. I mean, could I maybe use your oven to finish cooking? Please. Please could I use your oven to—”
“I don’t know you.”
“No.” I let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. “No, you don’t. But I swear I’ll only be a few hours, and I’ll leave the place totally spotless. There won’t be a hint of any roasting, toasty goodness after I’m gone.”
His expression shifted, eyebrows raising as amusement turned into caution. “You’re not gonna steal my underwear while I’m not looking, or whatever?”
Heat flooded my ears. “I… I promise I won’t touch your underwear. Not unless you want me to.”
He smirked, and that amused glint in his eye was back. Maybe even a little respect this time, too. Either way, whatever I’d said had worked, because Landon stepped aside and gestured for me to come in.
“Fine. But don’t make me regret this.”
I sidled past him, turkey clutched like a trophy, scanning his kitchen like a battlefield I could commandeer. Time wasn’t on my side, and as much as I would’ve loved to get to know him better, there was a Friendsgiving that needed saving.
The bird was first. Popped into the working oven, and timer set. I straightened, wiping my hands on a dishtowel, and Landon leaned against the counter, one eyebrow arching.
“So do I just keep calling you Hat Girl or…?”
My stomach did a weird flip, and I blushed all over again. Being addressed by the most famous rookie in the league wasn’t on my bingo card for the year, but here I was.
“Nicole,” I said, holding out my hand.
He took it with a firm grip, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gave a little nod. “Pleased to meet you, neighbor Nicole. Happy I could save your dinner.”
Dinner. Right. I shoved aside the fluttering in my stomach and muttered, “Oh, the bird’s not even half of it.”
“It isn’t?”
But I was halfway across the living room, waving him to follow. “Help me haul the rest of it from my kitchen.”
We hustled between our apartments until I’d assembled everything in his kitchen. Half-finished sauce, my precious yams, brussels sprouts, bacon, you name it.
“How many people are you having over? It looks like you’re feeding the entire NHL.”
“I wish,” I replied, and got right to work on the yams. “Just a few of my coworkers. A reward for getting the day off. Also, I just love the holidays.”
He nodded, sliding onto a stool at the counter. “I don’t do holidays, but I can get behind celebrating a day off. From what, exactly?”
“I’m a nurse at Mission Valley.” I wiggled the can of cranberries at him, and slid it over.
He peered at it, then slowly got to the task I’d set out for him. “Canned, huh? That’s… efficient. I like it.”
We fell into an easy rhythm, darting between my apartment and his, ingredients in hand, swapping trays, scraping pans, whisking sauces. Every so often, Landon would perch on the counter or barstool, bare chest gleaming under the light, head tilting as he watched me tear through his kitchen.
Whenever I gave myself a moment to take it all in, the effect was staggering. Landon Cross. I was cooking in Landon Cross’ kitchen. With him watching. Topless!
I couldn’t wait to see Rose’s face when I told her.
Wrist-deep in biscuit batter, I puffed air out the corner of my mouth to work back a strand of hair that had been pissing me off for the better part of the last ten minutes. It didn’t work, so I did it again.
The second failure is what got Landon to come over, all tattoos and bare chest. I gazed up at him, my thoughts stalled, my eyeslocked on his. Without a word, he tucked the strand of hair behind my ear.
“There. That’s better.”
