Once Upon A Half-Time: A Sports Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,33

appropriate container. I slammed a second frying pan on the counter just as the smoke detector buzzed, his phone started to ring, and the first-round draft choice of the Ironfield Rivets nearly scorched his multi-million dollar hands.

“Stay low and go!” Sebastian dropped to the floor and started crawling away.

Lachlan stuffed the burning rags into the pan, popped the lid on, and pointed to his brother.

“Not a word of that to Mom.”

Sebastian’s eyes got big. “Stop, Drop, and Roll!”

I screeched, batting at an ember on Lachlan’s vest that nearly torched through. He swore, ripped the vest off, and stomped out the lick of flame.

He turned off the smoke alarm with a code from his phone and breathed deep.

“Burned to death. Starved to death.” I shook my head. “This kid won’t make it back to his mom.”

Lachlan gestured to the pot. “Yeah, but it’s ready for the onions and garlic now.”

Sebastian pouted. “Can’t we just order pizza?”

“Elle, grab the matches. Someone hasn’t learned to keep his mouth shut.”

I smacked his arm. Lachlan motioned to the kid.

“I got my eye on you.”

“I got two on you.” Sebastian countered with a stuck-out tongue.

I dropped the veggies into the pot and gave it a stir. That made the kitchen smell a bit better. After a few minutes, without fire or any other imminent danger, we dropped in the tomatoes. A little salt, little pepper, an accidental half-container of oregano courtesy of Lachlan, and we had a respectable dinner nearly prepared.

Ten minutes later, the noodles were pulled from the water, and we offered Sebastian a plate of spaghetti dressed in a delicious, bright red marinara sauce.

He stared at the food.

Silence. I held my breath.

“It’s chunky,” he finally said.

Lachlan collapsed on the island. “What?”

“It’s chunky. It’s got…chunks.”

“Those are tomatoes. You like tomatoes. That’s what gives it the flavor.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Just try it.”

“I won’t like it.”

“Because of the chunks?”

“Yeah.”

Lachlan rubbed his temples. “If it were smooth, would you try it?”

“Maybe.”

He motioned for Sebastian to stay where he was. I took a bite with a smile. Wasn’t a bad first attempt, and the cheese masked most of the char.

Lachlan returned with a blender. I smacked his shoulder.

“You had one of these the whole time?”

“In the bar.”

My hands would forever smell like onions. “We could have used it to chop.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Just remember for next time.”

“Next time?” Lachlan grinned, spooning the remaining sauce into the blender. “So…there will be a next time.”

“You said three dates. You still get two.”

“Gimme a do-over for this one.”

“You think you deserve a do-over?”

He flipped on the blender without checking the lid.

A scalding hot spray of Italian shrapnel splattered over the kitchen. Sebastian and Lachlan shouted and dove to the floor.

The eruption of marinara sauce rained from above, soaking me in thick, hot, pastey tomato juice, seeds, and chunks of molten onion.

Lachlan leapt over the blender, stopping the spinning and slamming the lid on tight.

This was the second time I had been covered in a foul, chunky substance in a week.

I held my arms out, dripping marinara. A glob traced over my cheek. The rest somehow all rolled down my chest into a dress I knew revealed too much cleavage.

Lachlan didn’t even pretend to hide his grin.

“Yes, Red. I would love a do-over for tonight.”

8

Lachlan

Elle hadn’t spoken.

Of course, Sebastian and I laughed our asses off. That didn’t help.

A blob of marinara sauce plunged from the ceiling onto her arm. Her dress was ruined. Her hair was sticky. And she was still hungry.

Fucking great start to our first date.

I piled a heaping spoonful of spaghetti onto a plate for Sebastian, dished him some of the chunkless sauce that remained in the blender, and handed him a fork.

“Little man, eat.” I turned to Elle. “Red, let me get you out of that dress.”

She wanted to scold me, but Sebastian was at that blissfully ignorant stage—kinda like a parrot where he’d repeat whatever I didn’t want him to say without understanding any of it. She tiptoed through the hall as the sauce threatened to drip. Nothing a wash cloth and change of clothes couldn’t fix.

And I knew just what I’d have her wear.

I handed her a pair of boxers she could use for shorts. At least I’d get to see some leg. But I liked the spare shirt I had more. She smiled as I gave her one of my new jerseys to wear—the black and gold with the number eighty-three embroidered on the back.

“You know,” I said. “When I’d imagined this evening, I imagined stripping you down