Chapter 20
“Here?” Andrea couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice when Michael parked and turned off the car.
“Yeah, something wrong with this?”
“No, I just didn’t expect to eat—”
“At my house,” he finished for her.
“No.” She’d figured they would go to a restaurant, not back where they’d started.
“Well, you told me you’d think about it. So I decided to take matters into my own hands.”
Very sneaky of him. “Are you ordering food?” She hadn’t been kidding when she’d said she didn’t want food poisoning. Her cooking she trusted, but she didn’t know about his skills.
“No, we are cooking it.”
She knew she hadn’t heard him right. “What do you mean we?”
“Us. You and I. A duo. Does that answer your question?”
“No.”
“The two of us.”
Andrea rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. “I understand that part, what I don’t understand is why both of us have to do it.” Usually one person cooked, not two.
“Just come inside.”
It sounded like a dare, one she didn’t know if she wanted to take. “And if I don’t want to?”
“Well, I can’t make you, but you did agree to eat with me. Please?” He stuck out his bottom lip and gave her a sad puppy dog face that was too adorable.
“Fine, what are we having, and if you say it’s a surprise, I will hit you.” A woman who hated surprises could only take so many in one day, though both hadn’t been bad ones. Not that she would ever admit that to him.
“So bloodthirsty. We are having pizza.”
Again, she was stunned.
“What? Don’t tell me you don’t eat pizza.”
“I do, but I don’t make it. I order it.” She didn’t know the first thing about making pizza. Or was he meaning preheat the oven and pop it in?
“What’s the fun in that?”
“What’s the fun in making it yourself?” she countered.
“Come inside and find out.”
Again, it sounded like a dare. She felt like a fly to the spider. Did she dare go inside? “Fine.” She was not going to chicken out.
Michael opened the door and pushed it wide to allow her entrance.
Andrea stepped inside and stopped in the middle of the living room, taking in the space.
It was the first time she had ever been here.
She had never met Mr. Stone, so she didn’t know what the space used to look like.
It was a similar setup to hers and Maya’s.
It looked closer to Maya’s with the dated furniture.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Michael asked, sounding far away.
She looked around and saw his head poking out from an entry to the right. It must be the kitchen.
“No, thank you.” Her gaze continued to take in the room.
There were markings on the walls from where pictures had hung, but there were no new ones put up.
It was only the couch and coffee table and a TV on a stand.
Even the TV looked old. Weren’t men supposed to like giant flat screen TVs?
Even hers was bigger, and she didn’t want much television.
“Do you like it?” Andrea jumped when Michael’s voice came from right behind her. She hadn’t heard him come into the room.
“Like what?”
“The house.”
“Oh, it’s nice. Doesn’t really speak you though.”
Michael looked around the room and nodded. “No, all the furniture is still the previous owner’s. I’m afraid I haven’t done much other than set up my office.”
“Is the bedroom at least set up?”
“Do you want to go see?” His eyebrows wagged up and down suggestively.
“No.” She looked away, so he didn’t see her blush. “I was just asking since you said nothing but your office has been done.”
“I changed out the mattress, but the rest is the same. Maya told me the previous owner died in there. I didn’t really want to sleep on the mattress after that.” He gave a visible shudder as he headed back into the kitchen.
“Oh yeah, I heard about that. It took a while for anyone to realize he’d died.” Andrea followed him into the kitchen. It looked similar to her kitchen before she’d remodeled it.
“Go ahead and wash your hands.” Michael headed for the fridge and started pulling items out. Cheese, pepperoni, sausage, peppers, and other condiments.
“What am I, five?” she mused even as she headed for the kitchen sink.
Michael stopped rummaging through the fridge and looked over his shoulder at her. “Do you usually handle food with dirty hands?”
“No.”
Michael’s head darted back in the fridge. “I didn’t think so. Since we are kneading dough, clean hands is a good idea.”
“Now I have to knead dough? What’s next, churn butter? Milk a cow?”
Michael hip bumped her to wash his own hands. “One, butter is not needed for this, and two, I don’t have a cow. I’m sure not only the neighbors but the HOA would have something to say about that.”
“Fine, but why do we have to knead dough? Can’t you just buy dough or better yet, a pizza crust?”
“It doesn’t taste as good. Trust me. It’s going to be worth it.”
Michael kept telling her to trust him. Andrea wasn’t so sure about that but remained silent. Michael grabbed flour and sauce from the pantry. The already small counter space felt overcrowded now.
“So what do we do first?”
“First, you put on an apron.” He pulled one out of the pantry and held it out for her to take. She slipped it over her head. It was much larger than her own, and she had to fold it almost in half to fit before tying the strap around her waist.
“Aren’t you going to wear one?”
“I only have the one. It’s fine if I get some flour on me.”
“Alright, what’s next?”
“Making pizza,” he announced as he went back to the fridge and pulled out a glass bowl full of dough. “I was nice enough to already make the dough ahead of time.”
“How thoughtful,” she replied dryly. So he had planned this ahead of time. Was this how he lured all the women? Was it like the Ghost movie with the pottery wheel? He showed you how to knead dough and dragged you to bed. She would not become the next victim.
“It would have taken too long to do everything from scratch. It would need time to rise.”
“Was this always your grand plan? To have me over for pizza.” She suspected but wanted to hear it from his own lips.
“I like to plan for all scenarios, but I like to make pizza anyway, so it would have eventually gotten eaten even if you hadn’t come over.”
Michael sprinkled flour on the counter and pulled a chunk of dough from the bowel and set it on top of the flour. “There you go.”
“There you go what?” She looked down at the dough. It wasn’t like she knew what to do with it.
“You work it,” he said as if it were a simple thing when it was anything but. “Have you never made bread or pasta that you don’t know how to knead?” he questioned when she just kept staring at him.
“No, that’s what stores are for.” She liked to cook, but she preferred the store to sell it premade so all she had to do was cut it up or heat it. It was just her; there was no reason to do everything from scratch.
Michael shook his head. “Fresh is so much better. Watch.” Michael sprinkled some flour on the counter in front of him from the flour bag before tearing off a section of dough and rolling it over the flour before flattening it and rolling it several times until it started to form a smooth ball.
Andrea started rolling her ball, glancing over at Michael’s work to make sure she was doing it right. “How often do you make pizza?”
“Every couple weeks.”
“Wow, you eat pizza that often and stay as fit as you are? Must be nice.”
“You think I’m fit?” He sounded mildly surprised. Whether because she admitted she’d noticed or felt that way, she didn’t know.
“Now you’re fishing for complements? Please, you know what you look like.” She was not going to feed his ego. The man knew he was gorgeous, but she wasn’t going to say it. “As if you don’t have enough women fawning over you all the time.”
“I do know what I look like. I may avoid the mirror most days, but there’s nothing wrong with my memory. Most overlook the scars, but they don’t care enough to know the man underneath the skin.”
Andrea hadn’t even thought about his scars. Even with them, he was still handsome. The scars hadn’t affected his baby blues eyes or that panty-melting smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s fine.” His voice cracked like a whip. She had offended him, and she hadn’t meant to. Andrea had just assumed he needed people’s attention to feed his ego, when it was the opposite. He wanted to verify if he were still desirable just for being himself and not looks.
“Do you always make pizza from scratch?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood back up.
“Yes, delivery and frozen don’t taste near as good.” His voice was back to being jovial, but she knew it was a cover. He did that a lot. Hid pain with humor.
“You should add a pizza oven in the backyard if you like it so much.”
“I used to have one in my old backyard.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He glanced over at her, a look of puzzlement on his face. “Why do you look surprised?”
“I don’t know, you seem like a guy who would have a grill or smoker in your backyard, not a pizza oven.” She shrugged, not knowing how else to explain it.
“Well, that just goes to show you shouldn’t judge a person on looks.”
Again a dig at her careless comment, but he was right. Every preconceived notion she had about Michael was wrong. He was constantly surprising her.
“You’re right.”
“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, leaning over to place his ear near her. “I didn’t catch that.”
“You are right. You don’t have to look so smug about it.”
“Never. Your dough is looking good.”
“Thanks. Watch this.” She tossed the pizza up like she’d seen in movies trying to spin the dough in midair.
It half turned then fell back toward her.
She tried catching it but only managed to get a corner and tear the rest in half.
Well, that didn’t go as planned. She knew it wasn’t going to be masterful, but she thought it would at least hold together.
“Not bad for your first try.”
Anyone else would have probably laughed at her clumsy attempt. “Can you do it?”