Page 48 of Open for Negotiation
His hands are in his pockets and he takes his time, really appreciating every little choice, every detail. I’ve never seen anyone appreciate anything like this before.
“It’s perfect, Scarlett. It’s you. This place actually feels like you.”
“I’m glad. That’s what I wanted at the end of the day.” I check the time on my stove then push off the counter. “You can make yourself at home. I’m going to get started on dinner.”
“I can help you. You don’t have to cook and serve me.”
“I’m not going to deny having help. Bring it on, Mr. Duke. Would you like a frilly, pink apron?” I ask, teasing as I tie my black one on.
“I’ll wear whatever you have for me, baby. Pink and frilly or simple like yours.”
“You asked for it.” I open the drawer and retrieve a very pink, very frilly apron that I got as part of a gift basket years and years ago. “Need help tying it on?” I ask, tossing it to him.
“I think I can manage it.” He flings it out, unfolding it, then tying it around his waist.
God, he even makes that look good.
He rubs his hands together and comes up to my side. “So, what’s on the menu?”
“Well, apparently, I was trying to impress you because I got all the things to make pasta carbonara and garlic bread. Neither of which I have ever made before, so this should be a nice adventure for us both.”
I open up the recipe on my iPad and place it on a stand in the corner, so we can both see it.
“Pasta and garlic bread. Easy enough. I think.”
I scoff, “You seem to not understand that I can barely boil water.”
“Now, that’s not true. I’ve had your food at company potlucks before. I remember eating that,” he snaps his fingers while he thinks. “Oh! That pasta salad thing you brought in. It was great.”
“And it came from the deli counter at the grocery store. I just put it in a storage container from home so no one would judge me for not making it,” I admit.
“What?” He laughs. “No one cares if you didn’t really make it.”
“Yeah, right. That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to see the daggers that the older ladies in accounting stare through us when they taste our food.”
He shrugs. “You’re right. They are pretty scary.” He plants a kiss on my cheek. “All right, boss, tell me what you need me to do.”
I lean forward to read the recipe. “I need you to take the pancetta out of the fridge and chop it up into little cubes.”
“Pancetta. Cubes. Got it.”
I peek over my shoulder and watch him look through my fridge to find the meat. He looks so normal right now, but in a fucking incredible way. He’s not the rich CEO, business owner, or boss in this moment. He’s just a man, in a small apartment in Georgia, cooking dinner with his girlfriend.
Girlfriend? Is that what I think I am?
The reality of that realization makes my heart pound harder and faster and I think I may need some sort of alcohol, STAT.
“Do you have a cutting board and a knife?” he asks, holding up the packet of pancetta.
“Hmm?” His question snaps me out of my thought process. “What? Oh!” I exclaim when my brain finally catches up. “Yes, yes. I do. Hold on.”
I bend over to pull the cutting board from the lowest drawer in the counter, but I can feel his eyes on me the entire time.
“You’re staring, Mr. Duke.”
“Yes, I absolutely am, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Your ass is perfect, and a perfect ass should be admired, right? At least by someone you don’t mind staring at it.” He accepts the cutting board from me and places it on the empty counter space.
We work together in silence for a moment as I set the water to boil and prep the garlic bread, sticking it in the oven to bake up.
