Opening the car door, she sprung out before she could change her mind and send him home. Nothing needed to happen. It could just be two friends sharing a meal together. Nothing more. But her stomach did flip-flops, telling her she was a big fat liar.
On shaky legs, she climbed the stairs along the side of the garage leading up to her unit. The keys fumbled in her hand as she tried to stick it in the lock. She’d never brought a man home before. Jack had become many of her ‘firsts’. After Graham, he was the first good-looking man she’d become attracted to, kissed, and had genuine feelings for. Thinking of the growing attraction and what may happen when they went inside caused her knees to shake and her heart to race.
Entering the small space of her unit, she flicked on the light and tossed her keys and bag on the coffee table. The already small room shrank with Jack’s large presence. Jack looked around, and if he wondered why she lived in a small unit above a garage, he kept it to himself.
Lauren busied herself by searching through a pile of take-away brochures next to the phone and pulled out a random one. “Pizza okay with you?” God, her nerves were a jittery mess. Chest tight, she was finding it hard to breathe, like he was sucking the air out of the confined space.
Sauntering over to her, he glanced at the pizza place written on the brochure and screwed up his nose. “That stuff’s no better than eating cardboard.” She pulled out another one. “How about Chinese?” He shook his head.
“Burgers?”
“Do you want to clog up your arteries?” He shook his head again. “Please don’t tell me you eat all this crap?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t always have time to cook.”
Jack ambled into the kitchen and stuck his head in the fridge. Rummaging around for a few seconds, he then pulled out tomatoes and placed them on the counter. “I’m surprised you’re not fat or riddled with heart disease from eating that junk.”
She dug her hands on her hips and tapped her foot as she watched him search, for God only knew what, in the pantry. “I’m not a big shot athlete like you who needs to stay in shape.”
But she felt the need to defend herself. “I don’t always eat this stuff.” He cocked an eyebrow, not looking convinced. “You got any wine?” She pointed at a cupboard behind him.
Opening the door, he whistled and glanced over his shoulder at her. “Quite a good stash you have here.”
The loaded cupboard held bottles of tequila, midori, vodka, and wine. Could she look any more like a junk food queen and an alcoholic? “I don’t drink all of that myself.” He made a face like he didn’t believe her.
“I enjoy a drink or two with the girls. Nothing wrong with that.”
He held up his hands. “No judgment.” But mirth sparkled from his eyes.
“Why are you in my kitchen?” she said as she saw an array of ingredients spread out on the kitchen counter.
“Cooking dinner,” he said as if to sayisn’t it obvious?
She remembered the conversation with the women at the football field.
“I’d love to imagine that Jack would take you back to his place and cook for you. He’d light candles and play soft music. And then you know where that would lead.”
Except this wasn’t Jack’s house, and there were no candles or soft music. She clung on to the small details.
Jack put spaghetti on to boil, sautéed tomato and garlic, and had the kitchen smelling as good as an Italian restaurant. And watching Jack standing in her kitchen cooking dinner was the most delicious thing she could imagine. Her mouth watered, and it wasn’t because of the food.
“When did you learn to cook?” she asked as she busied herself setting the table, holding herself back from lighting the candle that sat in the center of the table.
He scooped a teaspoon into the sauce and tasted it, added a sprinkle of pepper and a splash of red wine, and then went on to pour them both a glass. “I can cook enough to keep me away from the take-away places you enjoy.” He smirked.
She rolled her eyes, and he laughed.
As she watched Jack move around the kitchen, the limp she’d noticed after training had not gone away. Pointing at his leg, she asked, “Is your knee giving you problems?”
He rubbed it like he’d just noticed it and shrugged. “No more than usual.”
He leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed his legs at the ankle, the movement bringing his package, which was now clad in faded tight denim, to her attention. She tried to keep her focus on his knee, but it was difficult.
“Would you like ice?” She walked to the fridge to get some from the freezer, but he stopped her.
“Not necessary. It’s not so bad.”
She sat down at the table. “I know you injured your knee during a game…”
