Chapter 8
Ishould have told her I was staying behind to work on some recipes.
Maybe I could have curled up on Warren’s couch and avoided coming home for the first real night of our roommate-ship. Instead, I’m simultaneously tired and buzzing with the need to know more about this woman that I slip up and basically tail her car back to Alana’s old house.
Once we’re in the driveway, both of us slamming our driver-side doors shut at the same time, I realize the error of my ways.
“After you.” I gesture for her to go up the porch first.
The tension between us is awkward and uncomfortable, like we suddenly have no idea how to act around another human being. She unlocks the door with me waiting behind her, trying to ignore the scent of musk and vanilla that still exudes from her, even though she’s been in a hot kitchen all night.
The light over the stove and a lamp in the living room are on, which I can see as I walk into the foyer. My mind tries to keep up with August plopping her things on the bench in the hall, shedding her light coat and hanging it in the closet, then heading for the kitchen table. I’m left looking a little dumbstruck as she bends to remove her shoes.
Exhaustion is usual after a day at the restaurant, or any I’ve worked in, but now I have to consider the other person living here. Typically, I stomp upstairs and sleep like the dead until tomorrow morning, but it feels weird to do that now that I have a roommate.
Especially one as beautiful as this blonde who looks just as bright-eyed and gorgeous as she does fresh off her morning coffee. How does August look so pretty while I feel like a bag of warmed shit?
“I forgot how hard dinner rush is.” She rubs at the soles of her feet, those thin white socks moving around her heel with the motion.
Never before have I found feet sexy, but I guess there is a first time for everything.
“You’re in hospitality, you’ll need to get used to being mobile almost the entire day or night.”
What the fuck is wrong with me? Overnight, I’ve begun shadily criticizing this woman like I’ll never be able to stop. Call it nerves, call it dumbass-boy-on-the-playground syndrome or something, but I can’t help this icy attitude where August is concerned right now. I think hearing my whole family sing her praises at the restaurant tonight just caught me off guard, per usual.
She narrows her eyes at me. “I am used to it. Or I will be, very quickly into whatever position I decide to take. The difference between my chosen job and this one is that I’ll be a relative stranger to anyone coming into my workplace. Tonight, on top of service and bussing, I had to answer sixty-five hundred questions about my whereabouts these past four years. That kind of socialization tires me out more than anything.”
Fuck, I’m a jerk. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry. I get cranky after service a lot, even if it’s a good night. Putting me out there on the floor and making me talk to a bunch of people for hours? I’d be a nightmare.”
August cracks a small smile, and my mood lifts considerably just from that little quirk of her mouth.
Part of me still can’t believe she so easily offered to share this house with me. I mean, it is my sister’s place, and therefore, I should have gotten first dibs, but Warren did not pose it that way. August was the one who agreed to be roommates, throwing the option out, and I’m still a little shocked that we’re here in the first place.
Sure, I’ve had roommates before, mostly other guys who didn’t communicate much, and we both were just in it for the split rent payment. But this is different. Living with a woman? It’s something I’ve never done. Hell, I’ve barely even had a serious girlfriend for more than a few months. I don’t know what it’s like to have a female occupy the same space as me, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m fucking nervous to do this, even if it’s only for a few weeks.
But hell, anything is better than hearing my parents through the walls, so I’m not leaving.
“Are you hungry?” There I go again, only worrying about food consumption.
But hey, it’s my natural go-to instinct when I feel out of sorts. Make something to eat, feed people, and all will feel right in my world. Plus, she just said she’s cranky, and nothing makes people happy like food. If we’re going to get off on the right roommate foot, the least I can do is use the one skill I have to endear myself.
August shrugs. “Actually, kind of, yeah. I also forgot how much of a ravenous beast I can become after waitressing all night.”
I grin. “I used to have this head chef who would break salt and pepper shakers after service until someone got her a bubble tea from down the street at this all-night Asian market. We learned to have one on standby for directly after the restaurant closed and then another one just in case.”
“Don’t get the bubble tea thing, personally never have, but I understand where she was coming from.” August smirks.
“My favorite meal to make after service might surprise you.” I move to the stove, the place I feel most at home, and start pulling things from the fridge and cabinets.
“Let me guess … some kind of fancy grilled cheese? Or a delicious pasta? Oh, maybe it’s a traditional one and you perfect your own personal pizza?” August’s voice is like the best kind of melody I could hear, and I’ve only just begun listening to it.
Turning to look at her over my shoulder as I heat the frying pan, I quirk an eyebrow. “You think that I, the fourth-generation heir of a pizzeria-owning family, goes home to cook pizza? I’ve had enough dough, sauce, and cheese in my life to make me never want to eat it again.”
Her mouth drops open in a pretty O, and a little gasp comes out. “I could eat the restaurant’s pizza for the rest of my natural-born life.”
“Noted.” My pride puffs out its chest, even though for most of her life, she hasn’t even been eating my Hope Pizza recipes. “But no, not pizza.”
Cracking an egg into the pan and grabbing a spatula, I let her guess.
“Scrambled eggs? Really?” Her amused tone hits my back, but it’s closer than before.
Before I can look around at her, August is hoisting herself up onto the counter next to where I’m cooking. Those long legs, still clad in the jeans she came to Hope Pizza in, cross at the ankle, and I can’t help staring. Her scent invades my nostrils, and I want to lean in, to feel if her hair is as silky as it looks. This is intimate, me cooking for her all alone in this house at midnight.
I’ve never done this for a woman, save one who I’ve known for years peripherally. There is a slight tinge of a blush on August’s cheeks as I realize I’ve been staring for a minute too long, so I turn back to my pan and start rambling.
“How long will you be in town?”
She pops a shoulder and hands me the pepper, indicating she wants more in her eggs. Being the kind of person who wants to dial up seasoning even further, I appreciate that.
“I’m sure Warren made you aware that my mother passed away. I’m just back to close out her affairs, probably list her house. Whatever needs to be done, I’m the only one around to do it. After that, I’ll be out of your hair.”
She harkens back to the line she gave me when I was flirting with her that first day in the kitchen. I can’t crack the same joke now because we’re solidly in each other’s hair.
“I’m sorry about your mother.” I say it solemnly because I’m still not quite sure what the situation was.
August takes a piece of cheese from the package I put next to the pan to shred up in the eggs and starts munching on it.
“Don’t be, I’m not.”
My mouth must fall open in surprise.
August blanches. “Jeez, that probably made me sound like a psychopath. I swear, I’m not. Your family can vouch for me. While you and I kind of missed each other over the years, your family knows me, and I think they’d say I’m actually a nice person. It’s just … my mother was a horrible human being. No two ways around that. Her being off this earth is better for me and probably everyone in her path, so I’m not sorry she’s gone. I’m sorry I have to come back and clean up one more of her messes, but I’m not grieving in the traditional sense. So you don’t have to say sorry.”
Fuck. I can’t imagine how fucked up someone must have been to make this woman feel this way about her own mother. If my mom died, I’d be devastated. My life would never be the same. So what August is admitting? That her mother was awful is probably only the tip of the iceberg. No one who has a mother who unconditionally loves them would be relieved when they left this life.
“And you got a degree in hospitality?” I change the subject, unsure what to say to that blunt explanation.
August chuckles as if she catches on to what I’m doing and nods. “Yes, I went to school specifically for it, to learn the ropes and get into the industry.”
“Do you have a job lined up?”
I’ve heard of Bethson University, where she went, because many of the front-of-house managers at restaurants I’ve worked at have been through that program. It’s a renowned program, and I am impressed already at the little August has let slip about where she interned.
The eggs clump up in the pan, and I stir them, careful not to burn them. I won’t fuck up an easy dish just because a hot girl is next to me, right?
“I have a few offers, but then I got called back here and I had to keep them on the hook. I’m hoping they’ll all still be interested when I finish this, but I knew that I had to close this chapter out before I could move on.”
“That makes sense.”
Inside, a zap of jealousy singes my heart. Here I am, called home for good because I have to attend to a chapter that will never end … my time as the chef for our family restaurant. August has her slate wiped clean; she can go out and be or do anything she wants.
My eyes catch on her again, and once more, I’m struck by how gorgeous she is. Fresh-faced, with the perfect bone structure, long, dark eyelashes kissing her cheeks when she blinks, and the fullest lips I’ve ever seen. How easy it would be to walk right between her legs as she sits on this counter, to take her hips in my hands …
Fuck, it’s just been a while since I’ve been this attracted to a woman. I haven’t had many days off since helming the restaurant, and I don’t like to hook up with women in Hope Crest because they all know who I am and where I work. I might need to go out of town for a few to sew my wild oats and work out some of this stress.
“Do you want hot sauce or ketchup on your eggs?” I pose the question, hoping she answers correctly.
“Ketchup. Is there any other option?” She rolls her eyes like it’s a dumb thing to ask.
I should not be so satisfied that she prefers the same condiment as I do.
We sit at the table, and I add a beer to my eggs and toast because what the hell. It might not be normal working hours for some folks, but I want to relax with a drink when I finish my shift, and to be honest, August is making me nervous. I could use something to take the edge off.
“Can I have one, too? I forgot how much noise buzzes around in your head after a waitressing shift.” She chuckles.
“You’re old enough, right?” I half-joke as I go to the fridge to grab her one.
“You’re not serious, right?” August sounds offended, and when I turn, there is hurt in those pretty hazel eyes.
“I don’t know, we don’t … forgive me, but we don’t really know each other at all.” Parts of me would like to give in to the lustful temptations occupying them, though, and get to know her.
August clicks her tongue like she’s thinking. “I guess not, but I’ve been around your family enough to know things about you. Like the story of how you broke your arm in second grade, or the first dish that you received a national accolade on. I know that you prefer winter over summer because you like cold-weather produce better, and that you’re the one who stole that forty bucks out of Nonna’s wallet while we were in high school. I know that Jackie Reincross wanted you to take her to homecoming your senior year, but you knew she’d bullied that new kid in gym so you gave her the cold shoulder. I know things about you, Evan Ashton. And I’ve been around long enough for you to know things about me.”
She raises an eyebrow at me as she takes a long gulp from her beer bottle, and fuck if that haughtiness isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. She schooled me, plain and simple, and I’m sitting here like a blubbering fish, wondering how to recover.
“I apologize. I’m … well, I can admit that I’m kind of selfish. Becoming a chef was kind of my one and only focus from the time the idea snagged in my head, and it’s been me and my drive from that day since. I don’t notice a lot of stuff around me, and my family lets me get away with it because I’m the baby. I recognize that. I promise, I’ll try to do a better job where you’re concerned … you know, because we’re going to be roommates for the time being.”
And because I hate how she looked at me before that mask of confidence slipped over her features. As if I did something to wrong her, when for the life of me I can’t think what.
We eat in silence for a beat after she nods, and her lips tip up in a small smile.
“Do we need to have some ground rules or something? I don’t want to upset you if I take the shower first thing in the morning or if I leave my shoes on the stairs or something.” I’m trying to be courteous.
And okay, maybe I’m trying to pry a little.
“I shower at night, so you’re good there.” She chuckles, and then all I can imagine is water sluicing off her naked body. “Just don’t leave cabinet doors open or blast music when I’m trying to sleep and we should be good. Oh, and don’t complain about my candles. I’m a bit of a candle nerd and love to light them all hours, but don’t worry, I won’t burn this place down. I just don’t want to hear that they’re smelly.”
“You’re talking to a guy who sometimes inhales chili peppers for a living. I don’t think any candle is going to give me the ick.”
“All right, then those are the rules.” She sticks her hand out to shake mine, and I’m a little too desperate to slide my palm against hers.
Her skin is smooth, creamy almost, and there is a little jolt of electricity when our hands make full contact. I wonder if she feels it, too.
“How about house guests?” I ponder, gauging her reaction while I still hold her fingers in mine.
“House guests?” Her mouth tics nervously.
“Will you be inviting any friends over? Maybe a boyfriend? Because you have the right to, it’s our shared place.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” She stares into my eyes.
Interesting how that little tidbit has my midi going fully hard like I’m a playboy who can’t be contained.
“Well, like I said, I can’t object to you having someone stay over.” I’m baiting her, and I know it, but I can’t stop.
Hearing her moan through the wall because of another man’s hands on her, even with how little I know her, might drive me insane.
“I can assure you, I’ll be having no house guests. If you have any, I’d just ask that you do so discreetly, and that they don’t touch any of my things, like my products in the bathroom.”
August’s face is an unreadable mask as she says this, but she does pull her hand from my grasp, and I can feel the coolness settle over us.
“I won’t be having any guests, either.” I make sure to annunciate every word so she gets the point.
While we’re living together, I’m not going to make her uncomfortable in her own space. I won’t be hooking up with anyone. And I won’t be parading women in and out.
“Up to you. Thanks for the eggs, Evan. They really did hit the spot.” She polishes off her beer and stands to clear her dishes from the table.
I stay seated, watching her body move around the room in an appreciation I should probably wipe off my face. Every time I think this woman is about to say something, she surprises me with a different response.
“Sleep well, roomie,” I say to her back as she tries to exit the kitchen without a goodbye.
August turns, her blond hair flowing over one shoulder with the move and gives me a small smile. “Night.”
Listening as her feet lightly tread up the stairs, I adjust myself in my pants. Damn, it’s going to be another night wondering what she has on under those sheets across the very, very short hallway that separates us.
What’s worse is that with each interaction, I’m more attracted to her than in just a physical way.
I will not bang my roommate. I will not bang my family’s precious chosen one.
Maybe if I keep repeating those two mantras, they’ll actually stick.