Chapter 16
When Parker said he wanted to cook for me about three months into our relationship, I’d thought he was joking. He was admittedly as much of a takeout eater as I was considering what he did.
I still can’t believe I’m dating the associate director of the Agency.
I mean, not only can he find out what I ate for breakfast—or even if I ate at all—simply by dialing up one of the satellites at his fingertips, he admitted his job isn’t just troubleshooting one day when he stopped by and the Defense Intelligence Agency practically bowed to him as my latest SCIF was being certified.
“I’m an associate director of the Agency,” he admitted when we were inside the vault that was buried in the basement of an otherwise normal office building on the outskirts of Reston, Virginia.
Floored by the knowledge, one thing I knew for certain was I couldn’t inflate his already massive ego. Instead, I clapped my hands together and bounced up and down like a schoolgirl. “Ooh. Do they have you in charge of HR?”
In the short time we’ve been dating, I’ve learned Parker “Thorn” Thornton might have a lot going for him.
He takes in the big picture. He doesn’t make any decisions without all the information.
He’s loyal, which is fantastic when you’re the one he’s loyal to.
One of the things he is not is patient. At all.
Add his ridiculous handsomeness, I can’t help but be a little intimidated by him.
It’s nice to have the occasional imperfection to tease him about.
And it is teasing. I could never intentionally hurt Parker.
With every spare minute we’ve spent together, we’re weaving ourselves more and more into one another’s lives.
We’ve spent time with Cal and Libby and their newborn.
He’s joined me for more Friday night bowling and I attended an Agency gala with him.
No, I wouldn’t trade this overbearing, over-confident, confident man for anyone else on the planet.
Still, despite some heated kisses where, with the cold lingering in DC, I’m transported to the tropics each and every time his lips make a meal of mine, I want more.
Tonight’s invitation to dinner had me slipping on lace beneath my usual jeans and shirt.
After all, his invitation is the kind of thing a man says to a woman when either he’s trying to impress her or seduce her.
God, I hope it’s the second.
But no—apparently, Parker is serious and wants something other than me on the menu.
Now I stand in the middle of his sleek, modern kitchen, surrounded by enough stainless steel appliances to stock a professional chef’s dream, I wonder if the way my thong’s wedged between my ass cheeks in these jeans was worth it.
“I wasn’t expecting this.” I gesture to the kitchen as I take it in.
It’s all shiny and perfect— like it belongs as a feature in Food Network Magazine belonging to Bobby Flay or some other professional.
Still, for as sleek as the kitchen is, Parker looks slightly disheveled in his casual button-down shirt—sleeves rolled up, apron tied over his jeans.
He’s holding his spatula like it’s all he has to disarm an army of hostile invaders instead of its intended use to scrape the bottom of the non-stick pan.
His usually cocky arrogance has taken a hit, and I can tell he is nervous.
Then again, I could determine that intel from the war of clam sauce flung in a perimeter around him.
“I, uh, thought I’d go all out,” he says, a crooked grin on his face.
“Figured a simple dinner wouldn’t cut it. ”
I prop my chin on my hand while I sip my glass of wine, wondering how many people don’t get to see past the cold shell he erects to the man beneath.
Studying him while he frantically turns back to the stove in an attempt to save our dinner, I can’t help but think how adorable he is in spite of my urge to laugh.
Seeing the great Parker Thornton, super spook extraordinaire, be drowned under the troubled water of fettuccini is oddly endearing.
“I’m impressed. What’s on the menu, Chef? ”
“Well…” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder at the stove before he tosses the spatula into the sink with perfect precision. “I may have... miscalculated a few things.”
I slide off my stool and make my way to him. Peering over at the pot, I see the glob of what was supposed to be pasta. In the next one is a grayish goop that definitely doesn’t look delicious. Instead of making me want to swipe my finger through it, it bubbles ominously. “Miscalculated?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, turning back to face me. “The sauce was supposed to simmer, but it’s more like... boiling. And the pasta got a little, uh, goopy. Let’s not talk about the bread.”
I glance at the oven, where he marches over to pull out a tray of what used to be garlic bread. The edges are blackened, and I stifle a laugh.
“Okay, so it’s a little overdone,” I say, trying to hide my amusement.
Thorn lets out a sigh, wiping his hand across his forehead dramatically. “You’re being nice. It’s a disaster.”
I shake my head as I relax against the counter. “It’s not a disaster. It’s... charming.”
“Charming?” He raises an eyebrow. “So, burnt bread is your thing?”
“No, but a guy who tries really hard to impress me? Definitely my thing.”
He flashes a wicked smile at me for that, his shoulders relaxing a little, though I can still see the tension in his jaw. “Well, I wanted tonight to be perfect. I wanted to do something that’d show you I’m not the douche who ghosted you in Mexico.”
I walk over and gently tug at the apron he wrapped around his waist. “And you thought poisoning me was the way to go?”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair, his silver eyes sparkling with amusement. “Clearly, I need more practice.”
Catching the familiar scent of his cologne, my head spins headily. “Look, you don’t need to pull off some elaborate dinner to impress me. The fact that you even tried... that’s what matters. Trust me, I’ve seen worse.”
“Worse than this?”
“Way worse,” I say, smirking. “You should see some of the meals I’ve thrown together on the job site.”
His expression is clearly skeptical, as if he isn’t sure whether to believe me. Then he grins again, shaking his head. “Okay, fair enough. But I still wanted to make tonight special.”
“It is,” I say, resting a hand on his arm. “It’s special because it’s you. Because you let me see you like this—messy, unsure, and human. It’s kind of refreshing.”
He meets my eyes, and for a second, I see something soft there, something vulnerable. It is a side of him I rarely get to see, and I like it. A lot.
“I’m not usually good at this kind of thing,” he admits quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Romantic gestures and all that.”
“Well, you’re doing fine so far.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “You sure? Because I can still order pizza.”
I wrap my arms around his waist. “Pizza sounds perfect.”
The awkwardness melts away, and he lets out a deep breath. “Thank God. I thought I was going to have to eat my own cooking.”
Still grinning, I tease him gently. “You could always keep the bread. By tomorrow, it should be hard enough to set it as a doorstop or something.”
“Or a paperweight,” he suggests, his grin widening. “Maybe I’ll give it to you as a souvenir of the night.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help laughing again. I never imagined being with him could be this easy. He has this way of getting past my defenses.
An hour later, we are sitting at his dining table, pizza box open between us, laughing about how the night has gone. He pours me another glass of wine. The candlelight flickers on the table, giving the moment a kind of intimate warmth that surprises me.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of wine and setting the glass down. “What’s next on the list of grand romantic gestures?”
He facepalms his forehead. “Shit.”
I immediately tense. “What?”
“I forgot the fucking flowers.”
Immediately, I reassure him. “I don’t need flowers.”
He leaps to his feet. “They’re in the fridge. Just stay right there.”
I close my eyes in anticipation. Even as I hear him rustling around in his fridge, I think of the discussions interspersed with comfortable silence, the kind of silence where I didn’t feel the need to fill it with words.
This whole evening has been perfect. Just being here with him, sharing pizza and wine in a way that felt surprisingly. .. normal.
In a way maybe this won’t let me down the way my father did.
I frown. Now, where did that thought come from?
“Sorry. It took me a minute to move…B? Is everything okay?” Parker’s voice is anxious.
My eyes pop open. That’s when I see the “flowers” Parker bought for me. Right before I burst into gales of laughter.
In Parker’s arms are twelve long-stemmed chocolate roses.
Sheepishly, he admits, “I tried to order roses though Peapod, but they substituted these. I was so worried about the food I forgot to change the flowers to something real.”
I lean forward and pull his face toward mine.
I’m still grinning as our lips touch in a kiss.
It’s a good thing the flowers are chocolate because the most romantic part of the evening is when he drops all twelve Dove chocolate roses to sweep me out of the chair as he strides down the hall toward his bedroom.