20. Amias
TWENTY
AMIAS
I once dated a big-time Hollywood actor. I dated a few models. I dated some heiresses. I had one-night stands with a variety of women. I'd never been nervous seeing any of them—and yet, as I stood outside Naya's apartment door, I wanted to smell my armpits because I was uneasy as hell.
My anxiety was on several levels. First, I was scared I'd fuck up by saying the wrong thing, and since I'd said so many wrong things to Naya, there was a distinct possibility that could happen again.
Second, I was afraid she'd dislike me when she got to know me.
A crush was great when you thought someone was a certain way, but if she had to spend time with me socially and not in a work meeting, maybe she'd think I was just the arrogant asshole CEO, and this would be our last date.
Third, I didn't know how I felt about her, and I was scared shitless it was more than what I felt for Ann because I'd never worried about saying the wrong thing to Ann, much less caring if I did.
The only thing I wasn't worried about was the wine. I'd sent a photograph to Darren of the twelve wines I'd bought, and he sent back a thumbs-up emoji and then texted: If she's drunk you don't touch her.
Yeah, because that was the kind of douchebag I was. Damn it! Is that what he thought I'd do? Get her drunk and take advantage of her? I hoped he was joking; otherwise, that did not speak well of how Naya had described me to her friend, which I was certain she had.
I set one of the wine bags down, pressed the doorbell and took deep, calming breaths.
She opened the door, and I realized no matter how many deep breaths I'd taken, it wouldn't have mattered because I was out of air. Holy mother of god! The woman was beautiful. I'd never seen her in anything but work clothes, but this woman in a red fucking dress was…wow!
She looked shy, and her eyes were looking at my shoes.
"Come on in," she mumbled.
I walked into her apartment and felt a rush of homecoming.
Ann had said it was a hovel and Kara didn't like leaving her son here.
It was not a hovel. It was small, yes, but cozy as hell and had a lived-in feel to it.
It was comfortable. No interior designer had decided to put a priceless piece of art somewhere to make sure you could never walk around your home without wondering what you were going to break.
Her living room, kitchen, and dining area were open-plan.
The couch was electric blue and whimsical.
The coffee table was low and simple. A big vase of fresh flowers sat atop it.
There were two armchairs that looked ridiculously comfortable, facing a television that was mounted on the wall.
There were colorful cushions everywhere and mismatched blankets.
The floor was fake hardwood, and she'd added rugs with abstract designs to demarcate the living space from the dining.
I remembered the dining table; it seated four and had leaves that expanded it to seat ten.
It was the table from her father's house.
The one I'd eaten at. The chairs were not the same.
These were also in light blue and were made of molded plastic and had metal legs.
The table was set for two. The candles were tea lamps nestled in cute metal reindeers.
On top of dark blue cloth napkins, she'd put a sprig of pine and cinnamon tied together with a brown string.
Two wine glasses, one for white and one for red.
The silverware was also familiar. Her father's.
"I love your place," I blurted out as I set the wine bottles on a kitchen counter.
"Thank you." She opened the oven, checked something, and closed it. She was doing her usual I won't look at you eye dance.
The kitchen wasn't new by any means, but again, it had that comfortable people cook here feel to it. And the smell of a roast made me hungry.
I pulled out the two bottles of white and two of champagne. "These need to go in the fridge."
"How much wine did you bring?" she asked aghast. "How much wine do you think we're going to drink?"
I grinned. "In case we don't like something, we can?—"
"Oh my god, this is…this is my favorite Cab Franc." She finally looked at me, and I loved how her eyes danced with pleasure. "How did you know?"
"I have my ways," I said in a mock Eastern European accent.
She pulled out a cold bottle of champagne from her fridge as I put the bottles I brought inside.
It wasn't a big fridge, but again, it was stocked with vegetables, fruits, and condiments that indicated a cook lived in this house.
And to my delight, in the middle of it all stood a classic French yule log cake.
"Tell me it's got chestnut filling," I pleaded.
"It does." There was laughter in her voice.
I leaned against a kitchen counter as she expertly opened the champagne and filled two glasses.
"Merry Christmas." She looked at me with a big smile and my heart actually stuttered. She was beautiful!
I clinked my glass against hers. "Merry Christmas, Naya, and thank you for taking pity on my lonely ass and sharing your Christmas Eve with me."
She flushed, and her eyes darted down to her champagne glass.
"Naya?"
"Yeah." She was about to move further into the kitchen when I grabbed her arm to stop her.
"Can you please look at me when you talk to me?" I requested gently.
"Why?" She didn't raise her eyes.
"Because I want to see your beautiful eyes."
Now she did; a flash of panic settled in them. "What?"
"You have fucking gorgeous gray eyes. I used to notice them following me around when I used to come to your father's house."
She swallowed. "I guess my crush on you was a little hard to miss."
"I was flattered."
She scoffed. "Please, don't lie."
"Why would I lie?" It hurt that even a small thing like this wasn't something she could accept from me without thinking I had an ulterior motive.
"I don't know." Her eyes were back on the floor.
"Please, look at me. I hate that you look down, look away. Why?"
"Because sometimes people look at me with disgust, and I don't want to see it." She snatched her arm away from me and set her champagne glass down on the kitchen counter. Then she went to stir something in a pot on the stove.
My heart broke at what she'd said, and it took me a minute to regroup. She was an introvert, but she wasn't timid. This was hurt; this was pain someone had caused her. I probably had a part in it.
It was a small kitchen, and in two steps, I was next to her. "No."
"What does that mean?" She looked into the pot, where I saw she had a wine reduction sauce cooking.
I lifted her chin, forcing her to look at me. "Do you see disgust?"
"It's because I dressed up, isn't it?" she accused.
"You look amazing, Naya."
"You wouldn't look at me like this if I was wearing what I did at work, would you?"
"The last time you were in my office, I was ready to come in my pants, just touching your lips. So, you tell me?"
She looked shocked at my blunt words.
I nuzzled my nose against hers and smelled that intense rose scent of hers. "You dressed up for me?" I teased and regretted it because her eyes seemed distressed.
She shrugged.
"So, what's for dinner?"
She eased up a little. "Roasted duck with plum sauce. Mashed potatoes. The cauliflower almond roast you asked for. Green beans with tomato confit. And you know what's for dessert."
"I'm starving, babe. When can we eat?"
Her cheeks flushed. Ah, she likes it when I call her babe. Noted.
"Another fifteen minutes or so. But…I have a starter to go with the bubbly."
She removed a dome from a plate, and I saw she had shucked raw oysters on ice.
"Nice. Where are these from?"
"I went to Boston Public Market. These are from Red's Best Seafood. Actually, I did all my Christmas dinner shopping there."
She'd made a meal fit for a king and I knew she was struggling financially to the extent she didn't even have a car, while I'd just parked my Maserati on the street.
"Did you bicycle in this weather?"
"I bicycle in all weather." She brought out small containers from the fridge and arranged them at the center of the oysters. They contained mignonette sauce, horseradish, and hot sauce. Then, she expertly chopped lemon wedges and set them around the oysters.
"Bon appétit." She spread her hands.
"Did you shuck these yourself?"
"Yes."
"You're a woman with many skills."
She smiled broadly at the compliment. Did no one say nice things to her?
Who would? Darren? Sure. Not her brother or sister-in-law, and her father was dead.
She must have other friends, or maybe not.
Kara had snidely mentioned that she had no social life and could therefore babysit Magnus at short notice and whenever they needed it.
Naya was a superb cook, and I had one of the best Christmas Eve dinners of my life and I'd eaten Christmas dinner in Michelin-star restaurants. It was more than the food; it was the love with which she'd made it, the care she took to make my Christmas Eve as perfect as she could.
"Nolan and Daddy couldn't cook, so I had to learn," she told me when I asked how and who taught her to cook. "YouTube helped a lot."
No woman, I realized, had ever cooked for me.
My mother wouldn't know which end of a spatula was up; same went for Ann.
With other women I dated, we went to restaurants, or ordered takeout.
I didn't cook either. There was something intensely cozy about sitting in her cute colorful apartment and eating a well-cooked meal.
We were on our third bottle of wine. We'd managed to consume her favorite Chenin, the bottle of champagne, and now we were working on the cab franc from Loire Valley. With every glass of wine, she loosened up. She was still Naya, just more so.
"May I ask you something?" I lifted my wine glass in a toast.
She touched her glass to mine. "Okay."
"How can I convince you to not look down, not look away when you're talking to me? How do I convince you that I'm never disgusted in any way about anything that's you?"