Chapter Seven Evie #2
He smiles at me as he picks up another long sheet of malleable pasta. “I’m glad you like the wine.”
My eyes dart to my glass. How is that almost gone? Jesus.
What is wrong with me? But the thought barely gets out before my eyes are right back, picking up where I left off.
“Pasta requires a gentle touch,” he says, and I swear his voice is more gravelly. “You can’t get it too wet. It’s about finding that perfect balance.”
Wet?
He lays the new sheet over top before dipping his fingers into a bowl of egg wash. My lips part. He submerges his thick fingers into the liquid and draws them out once, then twice, before the liquid carries up with him like a long tether before it breaks.
I swear I gasp. Just not loud enough for him to hear.
I’m blinking too fast, glass lifted to sip but suspended in the air because I am locked in, completely hypnotized by the way he’s slowly tracing a circle around the little mounds of goodness.
It’s slow, circling around and around gently . . . torturously . . . just like . . . My eyes close as I remember something I shouldn’t.
“I know how much you love to talk shit—”
I nod, watching him dip his thumb into his drink before he puts it in my mouth, his other hand traveling further south.
“—so let’s keep your mouth busy while I work . . . Suck.”
I’ve never been accused of being a good listener until today.
“Mmm,” he hums, pulling up my dress and tucking his strong fingers inside my panties.
He’s rough but not aggressive. Kind of like his personality. I bet he’s crude in bed too.
I don’t have to wait around for the answer because two fingers push inside me, dredging my lust back out and over my clit as he slowly, teasingly circles it.
“You like that?”
I nod, but he tsks, correcting me. “Yes, Chef.”
I faintly hear the sound of the pasta cutter clicking before I shiver, pulled from the delicious memory, and an exhale escapes. I’ve completely forgotten where I am because I bite my bottom lip, slowly opening my eyes.
That is until I realize the sound’s stopped. Full fucking stopped.
Oh god. He’s looking at me. Is he looking at me?
He is. My eyes grow wide.
What is wrong with me?
First off, I’m thirst-trapping a live person.
I’ve turned him into those guys I watch for countless hours who slap bread dough like it’s your ass or indecently finger a grapefruit.
And second, I have to figure out how to cancel the subscription to the area of my brain that keeps tuning in to the damn wedding.
He clears his throat quietly before the clicking starts again, but now that’s just the representation of the bars closing at the jail I should be thrown in. I’m depraved. Unfit for society. A flagrant debaucherous lech.
The verdict is in: I am not, and frankly may have never been, fit for human consumption.
The heat on my neck rises, heading directly for my cheeks. But I try and ignore it while also ignoring the fact that I can feel Chase still staring at me.
I lift my glass to take another swig of wine, but it’s empty. Jesus, how did I get through it so fast?
“Have another.”
Two words. They just hang there, surrounded by quiet. Not really a question, not really a demand. But I don’t know what to say because I am living my humiliation.
I admit it. I am attracted to him. I also admit that if I stay here for three more minutes, he will probably say something that will make me wonder if the census can even count him as a human.
He is not the one. Will never be the one. Because I say so.
I push from my stool and place the glass on the counter, trying and failing to avoid eye contact.
“Have anything. Just stay,” he offers, looking directly into my eyes before they drop to my lips, then back up.
Stop looking at me like that, dammit. He can’t know what I was thinking . . . but why does it feel as if he did?
It’s because I know that look on his face. It’s the same one he had on that night. And if it’s not, then that’s all the more reason for me to leave.
“Check, please,” I whisper. “I think the wine’s bad. I’m gonna go lay down for a minute.”
I can’t even look at him to try and sell it, but it doesn’t matter because he steals my glass and fills it before taking a drink, calling my bluff.
I can’t handle this. My flesh is weak.
“It’s delicious.”
Shut up.
“Just call me when dinner’s done. I’ve had my fill of you.”
Oh no . . . that came out flirty.
“Really?” He tilts his head as I stand there, silent. “I’d hoped you never get enough.”
“Shut up,” I snark, but it doesn’t have the same bite as usual.
He licks his bottom lip before he rests a palm on the marble, locking out his arm. It makes the muscles more defined. And him even more fine.
Goddammit.
“Come on, Evilicious.” He smirks. “How are we supposed to be friends if you take off every time I make you shiver?”
This motherfucker.
If my jaw was open, it would’ve snapped shut. He’s really calling me out. Without apology. Ooo, the smile on his face is so tempting to slap.
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Listen, I’m as surprised as you that I got cold, considering the room seems to be full of hot air. Have fun making your SpaghettiOs . . . Sorry, is that insensitive? Since your spaghetti never gave me any O’s?”
Lies. But desperate times and all.
He wipes his hand over his jaw, smiling widely as I walk away to my bedroom, only hearing him chuckle when I close the door.
Sicko.
I frown-smile because I’m not sure which one of us I’m talking about.
Well, that settles it. I cannot ever leave this room again.
A laugh hits me because I really hope the rosebush outside my window isn’t the thorny kind.
Fuck my life.
Chase
She ate in her room, and I ate at the table. But I’m still counting it as a win. Technically, it was a victory when she shivered.
There isn’t another sound on this planet I would recognize faster.
Because I’ve heard it twice.
And she knows I know she’s a fucking liar, over here pretending my spaghetti wasn’t getting it done.
It was once on my fingers and once—god, she was so hot. Her lips were parted, her eyes on mine as she trembled and came undone. But the after was my favorite part because she shivered and then bit her damn lip.
I swear when I saw it again in the kitchen, I almost busted a nut because there was only one thing she could’ve been thinking about.
Truth be told, I was, too, while sealing the fucking ravs. Who knew food could be erotic? I mean, I did, mainly because I’m a pervert and everything reminds me of sex, but the fun discovery is that she is too.
That’s the thing, though. Bed chemistry isn’t our issue.
It’s convincing her—the most stubborn woman on the planet—that I’m not who she thinks I am. Even though on more than one occasion—scratch that, more than seven or eight occasions—I’ve given her every reason to believe I am.
The thing is, I know where I land in life. I’m an acquired taste.
I’m well aware a girl like Evie is out of my league, but I firmly believe I just need to cook, and I don’t mean in the kitchen.
See, there are guys like Noah with universal appeal and a personality to match. Then there are guys like me. I need to grow on you.
Because I get it—I say the outrageous shit most people only think. I always call it like I see it. Which, on occasion—well, more often than not—offends people.
I’m only six feet tall in sneakers, I cuss like a sailor, spit on the street, act like an arrogant ass. I’m possessive, opinionated, crude, loud, and I’m blond—that was her insult the first night we met, not my low self-esteem.
But at the end of the day . . . I’m for her.
I knew that shit the day we met. She hated me, but I didn’t care because nobody else in the goddamn room could keep up with her. And they tried.
But I did.
She’d reminded me of my dream girl, Lisa Bonet, who blessed my eyes in 2006 when I watched her sing “Baby I Love Your Way” in High Fidelity. I was middle school toast, completely cooked over that woman.
And that was Evie the first time I laid eyes on her. Feisty and stunningly beautiful. I tried to lay the foundation for my point, but she didn’t get it because I wasn’t in her orbit, even if I already knew I needed to be in hers.
Winning her over might be impossible, but nothing worth having comes easy. Although it didn’t seem that hard to get her there the last time she gave me the chance.
I smile, lying on my bed, my arm behind my head as I tap my fingers. I’ve been turning over idea after idea, trying to figure out what to text her.
“The night can’t end with a silent dinner, us back in our respective corners. You feel me, Peach?” I whisper to the cat, who’s purring next to me.
“But what do I say? Advice is needed. What time is it?”
The words barely resonate before I swipe open my favorite group text, aptly named the Hookers—dealer’s choice, not mine. I was just added. It’s basically me and four sassy senior women in their seventies.
I met them when my head was in a messed-up place right after we’d all lived through our live-action slasher film. And not because our friendship needs a stranger twist, but we met skydiving.
It was kismet. These Golden Girls are all too often the highlight of my day. I tell them everything. It’s like having four grandmas who want to give you a quarter and tell you how great you are.
Best part is they’re night owls. It’s a whole “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” thing for them.
Me: Ladies. You know where we left off tonight . . . but I wanna text her. Not leave the night on a quiet note. Give me some good opening lines. Don’t disappoint.
Joyce: I was hoping for this. I spoke to that psychic. She says you two are a match.
Birdie: You need to be clever. And don’t listen to Joyce—the psychic is a ninety year old woman who does Ayahuasca and binges her husband’s dopamine meds.
Gail: He knows to be clever. When is he not. Don’t tell him what he already knows.
Mimi: Turn your phone down Gail. I can hear the gosh darn clicking all the way in the living room.