An Act of Persuasion - By Stephanie Doyle Page 0,54
why not me?”
“I don’t know. I guess with everything going on between us, asking you for a favor right now seemed a little over the top.”
He frowned. “We’re supposed to be starting a relationship.”
“Trying to start. Not in one.”
“And you felt more comfortable going to Mark for help.”
“Yes.”
Everything was more comfortable with Mark. Because he didn’t make her feel this way. He didn’t make her feel any way. He was her boss. She wasn’t in love with him. They could talk about anything. Everything was easy between them. Not like this.
As if making a deliberate attempt to back off, Ben returned to the grill and lifted the lid, studying the contents within very thoughtfully.
“I’ve got steaks on. I hope that’s okay.”
She wasn’t sure where this need to fight with him came from. But the dark edginess she’d been feeling since she decided not to cancel the date had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach and it wouldn’t let her go. It was taking over and she didn’t think she wanted to beat it back. Let him see this side of her. Let him know that it existed.
“Um, do you have anything else? I’m not really into steak anymore.”
He stopped and she could see his mind spinning. How long had he prepped the steaks and marinated them in some special recipe he’d found? Because he knew she liked steak. She’d always loved steak. Of course he would think enough of her to serve what he knew she loved.
“I have some chicken breasts. In the freezer.”
“Okay.”
He looked at her then but didn’t say anything. “You want a refill on your drink while I’m inside?”
“No, I’m good.”
He headed inside. A few moments later and she could hear the beeping of the microwave as he unthawed the chicken she didn’t really care about. When he came outside with a plate of pale meat and barbeque sauce she grimaced.
“What?”
“It looks weird.”
“It’s raw chicken. This is what raw chicken looks like.”
“Okay, but I want it plain. No sauce.”
“You love barbeque sauce. You put barbeque sauce on French fries instead of ketchup.”
“I don’t like it now,” she argued. “I want the chicken plain. Is that okay? I mean, I am a guest, right? You want to please me, don’t you? That’s the point of this whole shebang.”
“You’re more than a guest.”
“Right, sorry. I’m also the mother of your one and only child.”
“Anna...”
She spoke over him. “How long do you think it’s going to take us to eat? Because The Bachelor is on television tonight and I don’t want to miss it.”
“The Bachelor?”
“Yeah. I know you don’t watch unreal reality TV. But I do and I don’t want to miss an episode.”
“Isn’t that what a DVR is for?”
“Yes, but then I can’t tweet at hash-tag Bachelor with everyone else watching at the same time. Talk about what the girls are wearing, predict who is going to get the boot, that kind of thing.”
That was doing it. Now he was getting annoyed.
“We’re supposed to be on a date. I hoped we could spend the time talking, not watching television.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. This is me on a date.”
“This is you in a snit.”
Perfect, she thought. Anna moved her feet over the edge of the lounge and stood. “Look, if you don’t want me here, I can go.”
But moving a little too fast she tripped over her flip-flops and the glass in her hand fell to the deck shattering around her feet.
“Don’t move,” he barked at her.
Anna stood motionless while Ben bent to pick up the largest of the jagged glass around her feet.
“Sorry about the mess,” she mumbled.
He said nothing. Simply picked up the pieces and took them inside to throw away. When he came back he had a damp towel in his hands. “Sit down.”
Anna sat on the lounge chair while Ben crouched in front of her. He carefully removed her flip-flop and then used the towel on her ankle and foot picking up any stray bits of glass that might have hit her. He did the same routine with her other foot, picking it up, running his hands around the bottom of her calf and ankle checking for the tiniest pricks of blood.
Then he used the towel on the flip-flops making sure not a single shard remained. When he was done, he slid the shoe on each foot and looked at her.
“You want to tell me what this is about?”
No, she really didn’t. “I think I should go. I’m obviously in a mood. Let’s blame