She takes off and I smile to myself at the urgency with which she moves. My stomach rumbles because that chicken sure smells delicious.
When I find the plates, I lay out the cutlery, and let the cake cool before I apply frosting after dinner. I reach into the fridge and pull out the wine. I wasn’t sure if she even likes the stuff, but it’s a fruity Verdelho from California, so I thought it would pair nicely with the chicken.
When Bailey comes back, my dick stirs at the waft of her cinnamon scented lotion. Her hair is wet, and she’s in sweats with bare feet. Nothing fancy for my girl, and I love that. I love that she can be herself around me, even if this is her own home.
“Did you get through all your paperwork?” I ask, pulling out a chair.
She walks over to me, a little hesitant. “Yes, I did, mainly because I didn’t have a hot cowboy distracting me all afternoon trying to kiss me.”
“I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” I say, sliding into the chair next to her.
She laughs. “You’re not really.” She looks over the table, her eyes wide. “Wow. You outdid yourself. I love chicken.”
“Not just any chicken, Tennessee oven roasted in buttermilk.”
“My goodness. You weren’t kidding about being a good cook.”
“Hold that thought, you haven’t tried it yet.” I stand to cut the bird, then place the slices on her plate along with all the extras. I also prepared some creamy mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables. “Would you like everything?”
She nods, licking her bottom lip. “Yes, please. Remember how I said I’m not one of those girls who doesn’t eat.”
I laugh because I don’t know where she puts it, because she’s as slender as a rake. “I didn’t have time to whip up a batch of homemade ice cream to go with dessert, but I got talked into buying some locally.”
“Let me guess, Mrs. T’s vanilla bean and caramel chunks?”
“How did you know?”
“Lone guess,” she says.
I serve myself next, as Bailey waits for me. “You can tuck in,” I laugh. “No airs and graces.”
“I know I’m from Colorado, but we don’t live in caves,” she says matter-of-factly, but a second later, there’s amusement in her eyes. “And as much as I’d love to stuff my face, I’d like to say Grace, if you don’t mind.”
I look at her in surprise. “Of course I don’t mind.”
“I’m not religious,” she tells me. “But we always did it when we had roast dinner on a Sunday, and something tells me your grandma would approve.”
“She would’ve loved you,” I say before I can stop myself. Shit.
She swallows and presses her lips together, then releases them a moment later and smiles. “The feeling is mutual. I’m sure she was a great lady.” She takes my hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you for the food that Brett so generously paid for and cooked with his own two hands. Please make me strong enough to not look like a complete hog in front of him. Amen.”
I laugh out loud. “Best grace I’ve ever heard.”
“Better than two, four, six, eight, bog in, don’t wait.”
I shake my head and try to control my ongoing laughter. I wait until she scoops up some chicken, bread, pickles, and a little mash onto her fork. Then she makes the most delicious sound. “Brett,” she sighs. “That is so, so good.”
Okay, she’s talking about the food, not me or how I make her feel, but it hits in all the right places.
I take a bite too, not bad. Then reach for the wine. “Would you care for some Verdelho? The clerk said it was good with white meat and light meals. I promise I’m not a big drinker, but I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
“That sounds lovely. I usually only drink on weekends, but I’ll make an exception because you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
“I enjoy cooking for the people I lov—” I take a beat. “Um… I mean—” What the heck do I mean?
Her fork halts just as she’s about to take a bite. Crap. I didn’t even mean it like that.
I don’t even know her, but somehow I feel as if I do.
