7. Willa
Chapter 7
Willa
I ’M PREPARED FOR my usual, incredibly humiliating yet completely unavoidable reaction to Reid when I get home: a horrified squeak that emanates from the depths of embarrassment hell, followed by a stumbling dash inside my cottage. But for once, he’s not lounging in the Adirondack in his backyard, strumming a guitar like some hot fantasy come to life. I slow to a stop and stare at the empty chair, trying desperately to ignore the feeling that’s in my chest. A feeling I’d rather not name, thank you very much.
Get over yourself, Willa. He’s not interested in me, despite the way I’ve caught him looking. He’s confused. I confuse him. That has to be what’s happening. It’s the only reason a man would willingly ignore the signs that Goldie is giving him. Maybe he thinks I’ll turn into some weird stalker? For all the sense that makes.
But even Goldie’s being weird. As though her flirting with him is just standard. A reflex that she does out of habit and nothing more. Now that I think about it, she stopped talking about how good-looking he was after the art walk.
Huh .
I push back into gear, walking into my little home and peeling off my clothes as I go, sighing in relief at being able to drop them in my usual trail.
After taking a shower and towel-drying my hair, I throw on some ratty yoga pants and a threadbare shirt that hangs off my shoulder, revealing the faded sports bra that’s seen way better days, I shove my feet into Birkenstocks and head the ten yards or so to Agatha’s back door. I eat over here about once a week, but for once, she told me I wasn’t going to be the one cooking. Which is a little concerning—Agatha isn’t the best cook—but it’s impossible to resist being fed a meal I didn’t have anything to do with.
I open the door and am immediately hit with the scent of something delicious. Butter, onions, garlic: the holy trinity of cooking, as far as I’m concerned.
“Agatha, this smells amaz—” I stop speaking as soon as I round the corner, the words stuck in my throat.
Standing in front of the stove, normal as you please, is Reid Dimples MacKinnon.
Cooking.
Of course.
Because why wouldn’t I throw on the absolute worst outfit and then see the hottest man on the planet?
My cheeks flame, sending heat down my neck and even to the shoulder exposed to the air. I heave a resigned sigh. “Reid.”
Tongs in hand, he turns, his eyes raking over me from head to toe. The goosebumps rising in the wake of his review are plenty enough proof of how my traitorous body feels about his perusal. It’s probably not even a second of time, but it may as well be an eternity. I now have a deep, palpable understanding of how a rabbit in the wild must feel when it stills in the presence of a predator, muscles tense and eyes and ears alert, hopeful that if it stays still, the predator won’t sense them. What the rabbit doesn’t realize, perhaps, is that its fear only heightens the predator’s pleasure in the hunt .
Reid flashes what I’m beginning to think of as his signature smile, making both dimples pop. A predator, indeed. “Evening, Willa Dean.”
I swallow. “Just Willa.”
“Evening, Just Willa,” he shoots back, not hesitating.
Agatha approaches with a glass of white wine and shoves it into my hands. “Drink, dear. You look a little peaked.”
I turn my glare on the old woman and lean in to whisper. “You could have warned me.”
She titters delightedly, her pale blue eyes bright behind chunky, red-framed glasses. “And miss the fireworks? Not a chance.”
I swear Reid chuckles under his breath, but the sizzling of the pork as it hits the pan to sear drowns the sound out.
So, let’s recap: He’s hot, he’s got muscles and dimples for days, he wears a uniform to work, he lives next door, he plays the guitar, he’s nice to old ladies, and he cooks for them, too.
Fantastic.
Great.
Love this for me.
I take another gulp of wine and gesture for Agatha to get a refill ready. I’m going to need it.
Agatha keeps a steady chatter going the entire time Reid works, and despite myself, I inch closer to watch. I can’t help it. Call it professional curiosity.
It certainly has nothing to do with the way his muscles flex as he sautés the spinach. I’m merely interested in how he tests the temperature of the pork. That’s the only reason I’m this close.
“I promise I won’t serve undercooked pork, Chef,” Reid says, winking at me.
The heat in my cheeks is only from the wine. Period.
Also, the butterflies that just took flight in my stomach at him calling me Chef ? Coincidence.
I cough, unable to even believe myself. I take a healthy step back, not really understanding how I let myself get this close. Forget predator. The man is a freaking vampire. Don’t they, like, lure you to them or something? “I—I trust you,” I stammer.
He raises a perfect eyebrow. “Do you? Trust me?” His voice dips low as he speaks, and damn if I don’t bend a little closer to hear him.
Crap! I’m doing it again. Swallowing, I straighten and take yet another very firm, very deliberate step away. “Of course. Seems like you know your way around the kitchen.”
He presses a knuckle to the pork, nods, then pulls the towel off his shoulder and opens the oven to stick the entire pan in.
Listen, I know I said watching him eat my food was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
I was wrong.
Watching him cook is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re staring,” he whispers teasingly, shutting the oven door and flipping the towel back over his shoulder in what’s clearly a practiced move.
Mother. Fucker.
My face is flaming, and I should probably admit to myself that it’s not the wine.
I will do no such thing.
Instead, I shrug. “It’s just nice for someone else to cook for me, that’s all.”
“Is that all?”
I nod decisively and repeat it. “That’s all.”
He studies me, and as his mossy-green eyes flit from one part of my face to the other, I have no doubt he knows I’m lying.
Agatha, the conniving minx, stays uncharacteristically silent while Reid and I have…whatever it is we’re having.
When dinner is ready, Reid plates the meals as carefully as if he’s cooking in a five-star restaurant, using the towel to wipe off excess sauce. He serves Agatha first, then me, before bringing his own plate to the table .
This asshole.
My throat thickens at the beauty of the presentation. Beautifully cooked medallions of pork tenderloin lie on a bed of sautéed spinach and risotto, with thinly-sliced ribbons of carrots coiled perfectly to the side. A dollop of cranberry compote is to the side as well. The display is top tier. I have never put this much effort into a meal for Agatha, and twin feelings of shame and competition roar to the surface.
“Oh, Reid, what a treat!” Agatha says as she takes in the food. “Don’t you think this is wonderful, Willa?”
Both of them look at me expectantly as I unfold my napkin and lay it on my lap. “Beautiful,” I agree, my voice remarkably even.
We dig in, and I take it all back. Because now he’s the asshole. The pork is fucking perfect, evenly seared on the outside, tender and juicy on the inside. I couldn’t improve on it if I wanted to, and that pisses me off.
What can I say? I’m a perfectionist.
Thankfully, the risotto is fine. Well, it’s more than fine, but I can make a better risotto. The spinach is perfect, not too overdone and not too garlicky.
“What do you think, Chef?” Reid asks.
Those stupid butterflies take off again at the moniker. “It’s…really good,” I grudgingly admit.
The smile on his face is enough to melt my panties. There’s pride and accomplishment, and he’s freaking beaming . “Really?”
“Are you kidding? You know you’re a good cook,” I say, then I shovel another bite into my mouth. Ugh. Delicious. All of it. I hate it.
He’s still smiling. “That’s high praise, coming from you.”
I blink. Does he—does he actually care what I think? Impossible.
We finish dinner, Agatha keeping a steady stream of chatter going about the various goings-on around town .
Reid excuses himself to go to the restroom, and I whirl on Agatha. “You have a lot of nerve, you know that?”
She is wholly unrepentant. “Willa Dean Dash, you need out of this town. Who better to whisk you away than that young man? Start something up with him and when his time is up, you’ll go to Miami with him. Get a job at a real restaurant.” She takes her plate and walks the few steps into the kitchen, the subject as good as closed.
I growl. “Agatha, I’ve told you that I like it here!”
She sets the dish in the sink and holds her hand out for mine. “How can you know you like it here when the only time you left was one semester of cooking school? You’ve not been anywhere, Willa.”
I barely hold back a scream. One semester of cooking school ? She makes it sound like I was in regular college, doing regular college stuff, when the experience was far more brutal and cutthroat than that. I’m about to retort, but Reid’s steps tell me he’s nearly back to the kitchen. And I’m not having this conversation for the millionth time with Agatha. She and everyone else are convinced that all I need is to get out of town. What no one bothers to consider is my feelings on the matter.
Reid insists on helping with clean-up, and we have the kitchen set to rights quickly. I’m about to suggest we open another bottle of wine when Agatha claps her hands, an expectant look on her face. “Well, I’m exhausted. Time for bed. I’ll see you kids later!”
I narrow my eyes. “Agatha, you always insist on me staying to watch Jeopardy! And that doesn’t come on for another —”
“As I said, I am exhausted.” She grabs my arm and turns me toward the back door, and holy wow, she is strong .
“Do you lift weights?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Child, I swear. You exhaust me. Get out of here.” Then she turns to Reid. “Walk her home. ”
Reid is clearly aiming for favorite neighbor status, because he simply nods. “Of course. Thanks for having me over.”
“Thanks for cooking,” she responds, opening the door and practically shoving us onto the white slats of the front porch before shutting the door with more force than is necessary.
Reid turns his knowing gaze to me, bemused. “She’s fun.”
I chuckle, grateful to realize that I’m not terrified of him right now. And hey, it only took two glasses of wine.
I should probably think a little critically about why I need a drink or two to be comfortable around Hottie McGee here, but I’m just going to move past it. “She is,” I agree. “And you don’t have to walk me home—it’s literally thirty seconds away.”
He shakes his head seriously. “Absolutely not. I promised. And I’m an officer of the law.”
“How does that play into this, exactly?”
He grins, his lips far too luscious for any sane person to bear. “It’s in the oath we take.”
“You solemnly swear to keep all promises made to old ladies?”
His smile is bright enough to rival the sun. “Precisely.”
Managing not to swoon, and being unreasonably proud of that fact, I shrug and start toward my door as Reid talks and smiles. While walking me home…all fifty or whatever feet of it. The cicadas are out in force, and a breeze brings the salty scent of the ocean with it. I slow my pace, wanting to extend the moment just a little longer.
Actually, what I really want to do is sit and turn this night over, sifting through the moments, reflecting on the company and the food.
Reid, ever the observant one, notices. “You want to sit?” He gestures at the chairs in his backyard.
I shake my head. “No, it’s just…” I trail off and barely repress a sigh.
“Just what?” he prods gently.
Be brave, Willa .
I take a breath and hope my voice is steady when I speak. “I really like sitting outside on my porch there.” I point to the joke of a porch that juts off the kitchen and faces his property.
“Now?”
I hum. “Other times, too. But you’re always in the yard, and you’re… you …and I really only need like thirty minutes."
He grins, and so help me, if he presses me on what I mean by you’re you , I might go up in flames. He licks his lips, and something tightens inside me. “So, what, you want me to go inside my house for half an hour while you have some time to yourself on your porch?”
I nod, feeling my cheeks heat again. “Just from four to four-thirty.”
His lips quirk up. “That specific, huh?”
I sound ridiculous. I pull my shirt up for the millionth time that night, attempting and immediately failing to cover my shoulder. Reid’s eyes flit to the exposed skin as I say, “You know what? Never mind. It’s silly, and I can deal?—”
“I’ll do it,” he says gruffly, dragging his gaze back.
I stare up at him. “You—you’ll do it?”
He does that thing again where he seems to take in each part of my face, from my eyebrows to my chin and every millimeter of skin in between. It’s unnerving. “You deserve whatever you want, Willa.” His voice is rough.
I lick my lips, and he follows the movement.
A flash of lightning streaks across the sky out of nowhere, and with it comes the realization that this man might actually see me as more than Willa Dean Dash, sheltered daughter of Barbara and Dean Dash and sister of Goldie. He doesn’t see the awkward girl from the reality cooking show who got yelled at so badly that she came running home to hide in her parents’ diner. He sees…me.
So, I do the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Instead of turning to run, which is definitely what should be happening, I give voice to the one thing I want. “Kiss me. ”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Kiss you?”
I stand taller. “Yeah. Kiss me.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Isn’t it what Agatha wants?” What I want?
He smirks, the peacock in him evident. “First, you shouldn’t base your actions on what others want. Second, I don’t think you’re ready for this.”
My cheeks heat once more, this time with the sting of his rejection. I was wrong. So wrong.
He doesn’t want me. If anything, he probably feels sorry for me, and he certainly doesn’t want to make Agatha mad. Who would? I nod. “Okay, got it. I’ll just—” I start to go around him, but he grabs my arm and spins me to him.
I slam into his chest, the masculine scent of him immediately surrounding me. His eyes are molten. “Willa,” he says. “I told you that you deserved whatever you wanted.”
Then his lips meet mine.
Heaven opens, angels sing, the whole thing. There might be another strike of lightning, or it might be my brain exploding.
I can affirmatively state that movies and books haven’t gotten kisses right. They’re not even on the same planet as what’s happening with this kiss.
Because this is something from an entirely different galaxy.
His hands wrap around me, one on my waist and one cupping my chin, both of them pressing in. Instead of feeling trapped, I feel as though I’m being held for the first time. His scent, cedar and honey tasted at the height of summer, surrounds me like always. I hear the cicadas again. I’ll never be able to separate the sound from this feeling.
In mere seconds, Reid has completely ruined me for anyone else. There’s a sense of safety within his arms, against his chest. Like this man would do anything for me. It’s intoxicating. His hand slides down to my rear and squeezes, and I slide mine beneath his shirt. His skin is smooth, the muscles compact and tense under my touch. Our chests heave, and I’m moments away from begging him to come inside my house and continue the kiss.
Then he slants his mouth over mine and pushes his tongue in, making me see stars. He tastes like the wine we had with dinner, and as his tongue slides across my own, his stubble scrapes deliciously around my lips. His thumb traces circles over my chin that feel erotic.
This isn’t real.
It can’t be real.
I break the kiss, both of us breathing hard. He tips his forehead to mine, his eyes searching for…I have no idea what.
But I do know that I need to be done. That I need to stop the dream before it’s ripped out of my grasp. I pull my hand away from the glory that is his chest and step back. “Thanks.”
“ Thanks ?” The disbelief in his voice is evident.
“Yeah. Thanks.” And before either of us can say another word or make another move, I swivel and go inside.
I race to my bedroom, flopping onto the bed and burying my face in my pillow.
What have I done?