I did none of those things.
By the time he'd killed the engine, I was waving him in from the doorway. "Come on," I called, "you'll freeze your ass off if you stay out here much longer."
Tom's response came in the form of a frown and then the chirp of his car alarm engaging. He hunched into his winter coat, one that appeared to favor style over any degree of substance, and trudged toward me with a cloth grocery bag in hand. He didn't meet my gaze.
"Hey," he said as he approached the door, his lips still pinched in a frown. With his free hand, he clutched the lapels of his coat. I couldn't imagine that protected him from much of the brutal cold or slow-falling sleet.
"Let me take that," I said, reaching for the bag when he stepped into the narrow vestibule.
That earned me an impatient scoff which was an improvement on the frown but only in the sense that pirates were an improvement on bandits. For reasons I couldn't grasp, Tom didn't appear happy to be visiting me tonight. Maybe it wasn't about me. It could've been the weather. Complaining about the weather and its associated impact on road conditions was a team sport in this region. Or work or politics or anything. If he hadn't wanted to come, he would've bailed out. It wasn't about me. Couldn't be.
"You have a broken arm or something," Tom said, holding the bag away from me. "And it's just dinner, not a sack of gold bars. I can handle this. Thanks though."
I didn't know what the fuck was going on here but I gestured toward the stairs. "I still contend you're going to freeze your ass off. Upstairs, now."
"I'm not in the mood to be daddied tonight."
I cocked my head to the side to catch his eyes. "But you'd like it some other night?"
Finally—finally—he dragged his gaze up the length of my body and met my stare. A quick flash of defiance sparkled in his eyes and I had the distinct sense I was kidding myself if I thought I was anywhere near in control. "I don't know how you can complain about me being cold when you aren't wearing shoes or socks."
"I've clocked twenty-eight days of extreme weather training up in Alaska, on Kodiak Island. Plus some bonus training in Scandinavia. I've also spent the better part of the past decade hanging out in some of the frostiest corners of this planet. I know something about cold. I'd choose hot, sandy beaches every day and twice on Sunday but you could lock me outside barefoot all night and I'd be no worse off come morning."
Tom gave my feet an impatient huff. "I'm not interested in testing that hypothesis."
"Then let's go upstairs."
Tom went ahead of me and I ignored all the knowing glances he tossed over his shoulder as I studied his ass like it was fine art. That I didn't touch was the true test of my endurance.
Once we reached the apartment—which was a generous name for the space above the garage—Tom shrugged out of his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and busied himself with the contents of his grocery bag. He unpacked glass containers with red lids and some with blue lids, a metal mixing bowl, and a few ingredients gathered in a mesh sack. He did it all with the finest set of forearms I'd seen in ages.
I reached for the glass containers. "I can help with—"
He slapped my hand away. "No, I have everything organized." He slanted me a look before returning to his bag, his lips still pinched in a frowny-scowly-irritable twist. "I didn't realize it was Valentine's Day. When you asked me to come back and I suggested Friday. Today. I didn't realize it was Valentine's."
"Okay," I said slowly. "So, that's…a problem?"
"Of course it is." Tom rustled through the handful of cabinets that comprised this kitchen. I refused to call it a kitchenette. That word didn't belong in my mouth. When he found a cutting board and set it on the worn countertop, he said, "I made a date with you on Valentine's."
I still didn't understand. It was possible I was missing the point because I couldn't stop salivating over his arms. And his spiffy vest. I loved three-piece suits as much as the next guy but there was something about his trim body tucked into those barely pinstriped trousers, the crisp white shirt, that vest. And the tie. Jesus Christ, that boss man tie. "If it helps in any way, I didn't know it was Valentine's Day until you mentioned it just now."
He plucked a chopping knife from his bag, eyeing me with a wary stare. "You don't feel like I've trapped you into a Valentine's date?"
I watched as he slipped off the blade cover and sliced a lime in half. "How could I?"
"Then this isn't a Valentine's date," Tom said, mostly to himself.
"If that fixes this frowny-scowly-irritable thing you have going on, then sure." Knowing he was likely to slap my hand again, I stepped closer to him and smoothed away the creases on either side of his mouth. I slipped my fingers along the sharp line of his jaw to the back of his neck. "But like you said, itisa date and this is Valentine's, so—"
"So, nothing," he replied, swatting my wrist. "Go away, I have a glaze to make."
"Glaze, huh?" I leaned back against the kitchen counter with my arms folded over my chest as I watched Tom stationing fresh ginger, garlic, lime, oil, and a few other small jars I didn't recognize in a line beside his bowl. I grabbed one of the jars but he yanked it away before I could read the label.
He wagged the knife at me. "Don't touch."
I pointed at the blade. "I imagine we're even now. On the knife-wielding front."
"You're welcome to think that," Tom replied.
