19. Drew
Chapter Nineteen
DREW
“Am I interested in being your date to your brother’s wedding?” Kate sounds confused, so let me clarify for her.
“Yes. Would you like to join me?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says with a straight face, but her lit-up green eyes give her away. “I’ll be your date. There’s only one problem.”
My heart sinks a little. “What’s that?”
“I forgot my fascinator hat.”
I’m pretty certain she’s joking. “You have one?”
“Of course not. And I don’t have a dress for the event either.”
“You can wear that pink one from the party.”
“The one with the broken clasp? No, I can’t risk flashing all of London’s high society.” She throws back her nearly empty water glass until the last drop hits her tongue.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind,” I say, holding her gaze and gripping the counter so I don’t pounce on her again.
She blushes and lowers her gaze. A moment later, she snaps her fingers. “I know the perfect dress. It’s this new red, ‘40s style Stella McCartney. Very classy. I just need to figure out how to get my hands on it.”
“Excellent. Now, I could use a real drink. You thirsty for one too?” I ask, grabbing a silver shaker from the cabinet.
“I’m thirsty for you.” She flashes me a playful smile, and I bite my lip with a low growl.
“Don’t tempt me with the stove on.”
“We wouldn’t want to start a fire, now would we?” The girl is so fucking cute sitting there in my shirt with her hair in soft waves around her face and that look in her eyes. I could stare at her all night. But instead, I splash the gin and vermouth in the shaker, pour the liquor into two martini glasses, then slide one across the bar.
Kate takes a sip and smacks her lips. “Mmm, that’s good. I could totally get used to this.”
“What? A decent martini?”
“After incredible sex while you make me something to eat, yes. What are you making, by the way?”
Then I realize I’m making her my favorite dish. I don’t think I’ve done that for a woman before either. I’ve gotten Kate out of her shell. Is she breaking me out of mine too? “Welsh rarebit. It’s the only thing I know how to make well.”
“Is that because you grew up with a house chef?” she asks with a giggle.
“No, I learned this one from my mate’s mum when we were younger,” I say, thinking back to those easy summer days at Collin’s family’s home.
“I’m teasing you. I grew up with a nanny who made a lot of my meals too.”
“What? Lisa Lake doesn’t cook?” I joke.
“She does. But you know a model’s life. Always on off to the next shoot!” Kate averts her gaze, and I’m sure she’s thinking of my reputation. But I want her to know I’m not just what people think of me.
“Well, you’ll like this. It’s delicious. Not as delicious as you, though,” I say, and her eyes light up behind the rim of her glass. I lean on the counter to get a better look into them. “How about some music?”
“Like what? Barry Manilow?” She laughs wildly. As embarrassing as it is, it’s worth it to hear her laugh like that.
“No, I’ll need three more of these before I put that on.” I hold up my cocktail, and she giggles again. “I’ve got something for you.” I walk around to my vinyl cabinet and choose a classic Billy Joel album. I spin the record and set the needle. A moment later, the sounds of Billy tickling the ivories in ‘Piano Man’ fills the room.
When I return to the kitchen, Kate’s martini glass is already empty. She gazes up with a daydreamy look in her eyes. “Oh, I love this song,” she says, beginning to sway.
“Me too.” I hum a few bars under my breath.
“This song reminds me of my parents getting ready to go out for the evening when I was a little girl. They would play it on vinyl too.”
“Is that when you were living in New York?”
Kate’s eyes glisten in the golden recessed light. “Yes, you remembered.” She grins, then lets out a wistful sigh. “I would sit on the bed with my teddy bears and books and watch my mom put her makeup on. She’d dress in these gorgeous sequin dresses that were hot in the early ‘90s. My dad would wear these gaudy, shiny cuff links, and he always let my mom tie his tie. I remember thinking they were perfect, like a prince and princess.” Kate pushes her empty glass around the counter and goes quiet for a minute. I already know how her parent’s love story ends. It’s the same ending as my parents.
“Can I have another?” she asks, and I whip up another martini. The moment she takes a sip, she says, “Oh, man. I’m a little tipsy. I need to eat something soon.”
“Well, you’re in luck. It’s ready.” The toast is crisp, and the sauce is steaming. I serve up a plate, sliding it her way. “Go ahead,” I tell her, and she slices her fork into the bread and takes a bite.
“Mmm,” she says, her eyes wide. “This is really yummy.”
“Right?”
“Not as yummy as you, though.” She winks, and it takes everything I have not to lunge over the counter, pour that sauce all over her body, and lick it off bit by bit. We talked more over the toast, downing our martinis. She wipes her mouth with a napkin after cleaning her plate. “I have an idea. Let’s keep drinking and play ‘Copacabana’!”
“I’ll tell you what. We’ll have another drink, play your drunk song, then ‘Copacabana.’”
She sticks out her hand. “Deal!”
I take her hand, then pull her in for a kiss. “I’ll get the drinks.”
“You know, Drew, I’m really itching to see your inebriated performance, so why don’t we skip the Vermouth and take a shot.”
“A shot?” I give her an incredulous look. Turns out my innocent little Kate is just a wild one in disguise.
“Yes!”
I laugh and head to the bar, returning with two filled shot glasses with lime wedges on the rim. I raise one of them in the air. I stare into her olive eyes once more. “A toast, to lacy knickers.”
She grins, giggles, and clinks her glass to mine. “To lacy knickers.”
We suck down the potent liquid, and she quickly chases it with her lime wedge.
“Oh, yeah,” Kate says with pink cheeks. “I’m ready.” She swings her arms and jogs in place like she’s warming up for a marathon. And who are we kidding—her drunk song is a marathon.
I return to the vinyl cabinet and put on her request. “We Didn’t Start The Fire.” Right away, the synthesizer beat begins. She lets out an excited yip-scream and covers her mouth snickering. “What?” I ask.
“When I was a kid, I would lie on my bed with the cassette tape playing, reading the lyrics until I had it memorized.” She lets out a big belly laugh, adorably amusing herself.
“You did?” I ask, laughing and turning up the volume. “I’ll see if I can keep up.” I know the song well(ish). The lyrics take off like a freight train, and we struggle to catch up.
“ . . . Joe DiMaggio !”
We’re doing pretty damn good until she trips up on Prokofiev, and I trip up on Khrushchev. She dances in a sixties mod style during the instrumental breaks, and I join in. Half-dressed, laughing, singing, and dancing in the middle of my living room is almost as fun as the sex, but in a different sort of way. A way I haven’t felt before. I’m too lost in the moment to second guess it. Maybe Kate isn’t the only one breaking rules around here.
After four glorious minutes, the song ends.
She collapses on the floor, laughing hysterically. “Oh, my God. This is the best night ever!”
I sit beside her, trying to catch my breath and holding my stomach from laughing so hard. “Yeah, it’s pretty brilliant.”
Kate lies back on the rug, her eyes heavy as Billy Joel croons “She’s Got A Way” through the speakers. I gaze over her glowing skin in the light, the way the edge of her bum-cheek peeks out of my shirt.
She finds my hand and pulls me down next to her. “Lie with me.” I curl her up into the crook of my arm, stroking her hair as she breathes on my chest until she falls asleep in my arms. Her words echo in my mind because I feel the same way. T his is the best night ever.
Whatever’s happening between us seems like uncharted territory. Hopefully, rules are the only thing we break.
I scoop her off the floor, tuck her into my bed, and crawl quietly beside her. Thank God she didn’t make me sing “Copacabana.”