Crush - Kelsie Rae Page 0,19
I like my steak, I didn’t exactly anticipate we’d be cooking it ourselves. I can’t even make toast without it turning black, and I’m pretty sure that’s not a trait guys look for in a girl.
Although the fact that he can cook is a huge turn on.
I learned the hard way about meeting a guy at his home, though. Like the wise Left Ear once said in the movie, Italian Job, “I had. A bad. Experience.”
Shoving aside the less than palatable memory, I turn off the ignition and rest my head on the steering wheel before assessing Ben’s place. The house is gorgeous. Red brick. White accents. A polished yard with green grass and trimmed bushes. It’s picturesque, to say the least. Pretty big for a single guy. He must’ve purchased it with his wife before she died.
My sympathy sparks the same way it always does whenever I think of his late wife. I can’t imagine losing someone I love. I’ve been pretty lucky in that department. Grandparents are healthy. Parents are healthy. Sister’s healthy. I’m lucky. And for some reason, that only amplifies my emotions.
I shouldn’t be here.
In another life, his wife would be inside this house. She’d be wearing a cherry-embroidered apron with a string of pearls around her neck while drinking chardonnay as she asks Ben about his day.
He’d tell her something funny because the guy is witty if nothing else, then they’d kiss the night away in each other’s arms, thanking their lucky stars they were fortunate enough to find each other.
And I’d be home. Heating up a frozen dinner because I’m a crappy cook who never found the effort to learn when I’d only be making it for one person. Me.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and I curiously pull it out to see a message from Ben.
DRBen918: Ya know, my security system alerts me when there’s someone in my driveway. Care to join me?
My groan mixes with an embarrassed laugh that I’ve been caught as I open the driver’s side door and head to his front door. It’s already open and has painted Ben’s muscular frame in light as he rests his shoulder against the jamb.
“Sorry, I’m late,” I apologize before raising a plastic bag of dinner rolls I’d picked up at the bakery. “I didn’t know what to bring. I thought about a bottle of wine, but since I can’t drink, that might’ve seemed weird.”
Laughing, he reaches for the bag of rolls then tugs me to his side as he guides me into his home, which is just as stunning on the inside as it is on the outside. “Rolls will be great. And I already took care of the beverage situation, so we should be good to go. Thanks for being so thoughtful even though I insisted I had it all covered,” he admonishes with a crooked smirk.
“Hey, I’m not about to test social etiquette, mister.” His deep laugh sends tingles racing down my spine. Rocking back on my heels, I add, “Thanks for inviting me, by the way. When you asked how I like my steak grilled, I didn’t think you’d be making it yourself.”
“I’m a man of many talents.” His comment is delivered with that same arrogant, yet sexy as hell smirk. Pretty sure that thing is permanently etched into his face whenever he’s around me. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“Nope. Thank you, Google Maps.”
“That app has saved me more times than I can count. Let me take your jacket. Then I can put you to work.”
My brow quirks. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Gotta help me make the food. Dinner isn’t going to make itself,” he teases. The scent of marinade and butter tickles my nostrils, and a small part of me thinks he’s kidding, but I can’t be sure.
Still, the guy’s gotta know what he’s getting into by inviting me into the kitchen, so I tell him, “I don’t cook. I take pretty good pictures and have babies for other people, but that’s about where my talents end. Sorry, my friend. But if you want it edible, then you’ll want me to sit this one out.”
He doesn’t answer as he leads me into his immaculate kitchen with white cupboards, gray speckled granite countertops, white walls, and bright red appliances that make the place look straight out of a Betty Crocker magazine. After placing me behind a cutting board, he hands me a tomato.
“Can you slice this without cutting off your finger?” he challenges.
“I can make no