24. Reservations
RESERVATIONS
COLE
I don’t know what I was thinking.
Sure, I can cook. If by cook, you mean toss a block of meat on the grill and not let it burn.
Is that what I offered Junie?
Fuck no.
I had to go and shoot my shot by offering to cook dinner.
And not just cook dinner, but I took it up a notch by insinuating that I can cook well.
Now I’m sweating like a man about to face punishment for missing curfew and trying to make sense of Google’s recipe for manicotti.
“Pipe in the filling?” What the hell are they talking about?
I’m halfway to the garage for a piece of PVC when a new Google search stops me in my tracks.
How do you pipe food?
Returning to the kitchen, I blindly open cabinets.
In lieu of a piping bag, a gallon zip-top bag may be used.
At least I know where those are.
Why the hell didn’t I ask one of the literal hundred grandmothers I have in this neighborhood for help?
Because you’re a stubborn fuck-face who would rather bite his own arm off just to prove he could.
I’ve been talking with Hudson too much lately.
“Cole Whittaker! What in the ever-living hell are you doing?”
I’m elbow deep in a Ziploc bag and a questionable ricotta mixture when Nana Mae’s voice has my shoulders rising to my ears.
“Just…” I turn my head as her mouth drops open.
She’s wearing a blouse that means Dollie’s playing her wing woman tonight at bingo, and now not only do I need to figure out dinner, I also need to bleach out my eyes, ears, and memory.
The last time Dollie played wing woman, Nana Mae ended up with three dates and some deliveries from Tender Mercies. I will never live it down if Nolan and Hud find out that my grandmother ordered products from their—ah—self-care business.
“What happened in here?”
“I’m making dinner for Junie,” I growl.
“Don’t you sass me, young man.”
Before I can tell her I’m fine, she’s already putting an apron over her head and pushing up her sleeves.
“You’re going to get shit all over you,” I say.
“You fool,” she mutters. “Why are you so damn stubborn? What time’s she coming over?”
Nana Mae hip-checks me while taking the leaking mess of ricotta from my hands and holding the bag open so I can dump the rest of the mixture in.
“Seven.”
She glances up at the clock, then shakes her head. “Damn stubborn fool. Can’t ask for help to save his damn life.” Her muttering continues, then she dips her finger into the cheese. “Well, at least you followed directions. This is real good, Cole. Seasoned nicely.”
Who knew I still needed Grandma to boost my confidence?
“Thanks.”
She glances over her shoulder at the drained noodles I have sitting on the counter and hums. “Junie’s going to love it.
Now here.” She hands me back the bag and grabs a pair of kitchen scissors and the noodles.
“I’m going to cut the corner off the bag, then all you have to do is hold the noodle at an angle and squeeze the ricotta in. ”
“I googled a few videos,” I tell her.
“Good. Get to it.” She watches me fill two noodles, then works around me to clean up some of my mess—something I’m only now realizing I wouldn’t have time to do myself and still have everything set up for Junie.
“Thank you,” I say quietly when the clinking sounds of her cleaning fade away.
“Cole, the biggest obstacle in your life is you,” she says, tossing her drying towel back onto the hook. “The sooner you remember how to lean on those who love you, the sooner you’ll be able to have the life you’ve always dreamed of.”
She opens a drawer and pulls out a spoon to taste my sauce that’s simmering on the stove, adds a bit of salt and a green herb, gives it a stir, then turns off the gas.
“You’re good to go, my boy.” She steps up next to me, then pats my cheek.
Something she does far less these days but was a constant form of affection when I was young.
“Don’t let the betrayals of your past be the thing that ruins your future.
I raised you better than that.” One more pat of the cheek, then she lowers her arms, takes off her apron, and exits my back door with two bottles of wine I bought yesterday.
I chuckle. Two bottles of wine are the least I can do for the help I never asked for but obviously needed.
By the time I get the manicotti with sausage and peppers into the oven, a light sheen of sweat dots my spine.
I have just enough time to light the candles and open the bottle of wine that Hudson bullied me into buying a few years ago. It’s more than I’ve ever spent on a bottle of anything, so it’s sat in my wine fridge like I’ve been saving it for this moment.
I’m lucky Nana Mae and her wine-obsessed companions never touched it.
I set the table and then stand back. Something’s off, but I can’t tell what. I quickly switch the forks with the knives, but it doesn’t fix it. I can’t believe I’m second-guessing tablescapes, but it’s a detail Junie will notice, and I want to get it right.
I peek out my window again. More specifically, to the lights in Junie’s apartment.
Get your shit together, Whittaker.
I’m not even a little surprised to hear Hudson’s voice in my head right when I don’t want it. Why can’t it be Fen’s voice that keeps me in check? At least he’s a cheerleader, overzealous though he may be.
I should not be this nervous.
Except, I am. I’ve already fucked up one too many times, and I know it.
She knocks at my door, and it’s so unexpected I grip the back of the chair just to have something to ground me. Junie hasn’t knocked on that door in weeks, but there’s no doubt that it’s her.
With a final breath, I cross the room and open the door.
And promptly forget how words work.
Juniper Mercer is standing on my back porch in a dress the color of moss after a rainstorm, and her hair is down.
I fucking love her hair down. I especially love how it’s pulled over one shoulder, creating a visual line of interest to the cut of her dress.
It’s just low enough to flash a hint of cleavage.
A promise of what’s beneath that’s ruining me with its simplistic beauty.
Or perhaps that’s just her.
I scan the length of her and pause on her shoes.
Somehow, this is the detail that stumps me. I love how long and sexy the low heel makes her legs look, but there’s something about Junie barefoot that feels…real.
“Stop it,” she says, fidgeting from foot to foot.
“Stop what?” I do another slow perusal of her body, taking in every detail with painstaking effort.
So. Damn. Beautiful.
“Stop staring at me like that.” Her tone is shy, quiet in a way Junie never is with anyone else.
I like it.
Scratch that, I love it.
“Like what?” My lips try to curl into a smile she won’t appreciate, and it’s a real effort to hold back.
“Like I’m a puzzle that doesn’t fit.”
“Oh, you fit, Junie. Trust me. Every inch of you fits.”
“Cole.” She’s aiming for pissed, but her breathy tone gives her away.
“Juniper.” Shit. Seduction leaks from my voice without even trying. Her cheeks flare pink, and I bookmark that tone for future use.
“It’s just a dress.”
“It’s not.”
Her eyes flash like sapphires. “It’s all I brought from Boston, don’t make a thing of it.”
I unleash my smile as I lean in to kiss her cheek, reveling in the hitch of her breath when my lips skim her soft flesh. “Oh, Junie,” I whisper into the shell of her ear. “I’m going to make a thing of it. And then I’m going to do something I’ve never, ever done before.”
“What’s that?” Her cheek twitches, and I pull back enough to see her lick her lips. Her tongue leaves a glistening trail along her bottom lip that has my thoughts spiraling straight into a ditch.
“Buy you a shitload of dresses.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You roll your eyes all you want, but seeing you in a dress? It’s my new favorite thing.”
She makes a small, irritated noise that’s been a characteristic of hers since she was ten, pushes past me into my house like she owns it, and stops short at the sight she finds at the kitchen table.
Her chest rises quickly as she scans the room while her dress swishes around her legs. If I didn’t know it before, I do now—Juniper Mercer is ruining me.
“You…set the table.” With her back to me, I can’t see her eyes, but I’m certain there’s confusion in them.
“I said I’d cook.”
“You did,” she says slowly. I bite my bottom lip to keep my smirk in check when she absentmindedly rearranges the silverware, so the fork is on the left side of the plate. “But you didn’t say you’d do all…”
She glances around the room again, pausing on the candles, the wine, the linen napkins I hand-rolled and stuffed rather poorly into the napkin rings Nana Mae always uses for special occasions.
“Juniper.” My chest is on fire, and I fight the urge to scratch at it.
“Cole.”
She says my name like she’s trying to regulate her breathing with it, so I give her a moment while I move around her to the island and pretend to toss the salad.
At this point, it’s already been tossed so much that the tomatoes have shed all their seeds and I’m in danger of making a mashed salad if I don’t ease up.
Her focus catches on the wine next to me before flicking back to the candle, and that’s when it happens in real time.
Juniper Mercer needs more information and is steeling her spine as she sits at my table, then folds her hands primly as though she’s a woman who’s been invited to a negotiation and not a date.
Unfortunately for her, I expected nothing less.
“Can I have a glass of wine, Whittaker?” Shoulders back, eyes straight ahead, I can almost hear the gears working over all the possibilities in her mind.
“Of course, Viper. Anything for my date.”
Her gaze snaps to mine. There’s the flame dancing in her ocean-blue depths.
Welcome to the game, Junie.
This time, I’ve come to win.
She watches as I move around the kitchen, open the bottle of wine, and pour two glasses. I soak in the tenable energy that clicks, catches, and redirects between us.
This is how we work. Somewhere between the shots fired, we’ve always existed behind a shield that was created just for us.