Sliding a packet of spaghetti into one of the top cupboards, I mentally cycle through the clothes in my wardrobe. “How fancy are we talking?”
Will sidles up alongside me with a packet of white rice. From this proximity, I can smell his expensive, spicy cologne, which could easily be overpowering if he didn’t apply just the right amount.
“Like two hundred dollars for an entrée.”
I almost choke on my own tongue. While we were both raised around money, my parents lived—and still do live—a very modest lifestyle. Dad came from a background where he had nothing, and when Mom witnessed his awful childhood, I think it put a lot into perspective for her too. Most of their money is piled into their beloved charity for domestic abuse victims, Never Silent, where my sister and I volunteered during summer breaks from school.
“Will, that’s …” My sentence trails off when I swivel to face him and realize just how close he actually is.
Full lips tip into a panty-melting smile that I’m sure he’s perfected in the bathroom mirror.
“What other plans do you have for your twenty-first birthday?”
I think about it for a second. “Dinner at my parents’ tomorrow night. Dad’s cooking my favorite pot roast.”
The way he wants to roll his eyes is obvious, although he doesn’t. “I’m not letting your big day pass without at least a filet mignon and a glass of Dom Pérignon.”
I roll my eyes instead, cheeks burning again because I’m shit at accepting compliments or being spoiled in any capacity at all. And frustratingly, Will already knows that.
“I’m paying half the bill.”
He shakes his head and moves back to the island, pulling out a bunch of bananas.
“See, I do eat healthy,” I declare, pointing at the fruit in his hand.
His free hand disappears inside another bag—the one where the ice cream and cheesecake appeared from earlier.
“Whipped cream.” He sets the can on the island, going back for something else. “Cherries.” He lowers his hand and pulls out the last item. “And sprinkles.”
I shrug and close the top cupboard above my head.
“Call me a genius, Baby. But these look like the ingredients for an ice cream sundae or a fancy hot chocolate.”
I skip over his accurate observation and zero in on the real reason behind my annoyance. “Did you just call me Baby?”
Will’s lips curl into a devilish smile. “I sure did. Now that we’re partners, I figure I should call you a nickname that fits my uber-unprofessional reputation.”
I scoff and snatch the whipped cream from the side, opening the refrigerator.
“Address me as Baby again, and I’ll be storing this”—I wave the can of whipped cream at him—“where the sun doesn’t shine.”
4
. . .
Will
“What’s the matter?” I ask Drew, pulling into the restaurant’s valet parking and killing the McLaren’s engine.
She scoffs and shakes her head, still staring out the windshield. “You do realize that this place won’t have any tables for another three months?” Drew points a pink manicured finger at the restaurant entrance. “You can’t just walk in there and expect to be served.”
I look confused because I am. “I have the last three times I ate here.”
Her head whips to me. “Three times?! You’ve only been living in Seattle for two weeks.”
I shrug, and the valet opens the driver’s door.
Stepping out, I hand him the keys, and Drew climbs out when one of his colleagues opens her door.
