She watched the group disperse, surprised that no one had offered to help. “You shouldn’t have to cook for everyone all by yourself.”
“I agree. That’s why I’ve got a sous chef.”
She stopped herself from making a crack about the woman behind the reception desk who’d been eyeing him since they’d checked in. It was time to kick that knee-jerk reaction to the curb. “And who would that be?”
He gave her a sexy grin and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, tugging her against him. “Only my most favorite person in the world.”
They rolled the cart along the far wall of the store, past eggs, milk, cheese, and yogurt. Gigi couldn’t believe the way everyone blatantly checked Cassian out. It was easy for her to go incognito—all she had to do was skip the costume and fix her hair a different way.
But Cassian? The worn baseball cap set low on his forehead might disguise the top half of his face, but it didn’t make him invisible.
He strolled, eyeing every single thing in the refrigerated case but choosing nothing.
“What exactly are you cooking?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
That body—all tight, hard muscles and tan skin—made everyone doubletake on him. Dark brown hair curled out the back of the hat like a duck tail. Cassian projected potent masculinity, and once spotted, no one could take her eyes off him.
She was no different. No matter how much time she spent with him, that jittery sensation wouldn’t ease. It was like the crush that wouldn’t die. “Yeah, but we have to start somewhere. Are we making meat? Pasta? Oh, we could do lasagna. That’s super easy.”
“You can make lasagna if you want.”
“You don’t like lasagna?”
“I don’t eat white flour, tomato sauce, or much dairy, so…no.”
“What’s wrong with tomato sauce?”
“Tomatoes are a nightshade vegetable, which means they’re inflammatory.”
“Right. Strict diet.”
He stopped at the cheese section, tossing a wheel of brie in the cart. “I don’t view it as strict. I just educate myself and use the ingredients that maximize my health and performance.”
“That’s a good attitude. So, what do you eat?”
“Mostly just vegetables, meat, whole grains, and legumes.”
She hip-checked him and took over the cart.
“Hey. Where are you going?”
“You don’t eat dairy.”
“But other people do.”
“You’re cooking. It’s your food. And I’m going to guess you cook as well as you play ball, so they’ll love whatever you make.” She turned down a random aisle. “If you were home tonight, what would you make?”
“It’s Friday, so I’d eat leftovers.”
“You’re very annoying. Let’s pretend it’s—”
“Sunday. Because that’s when I cook for the week.”
“Okay, Sunday…wait, how did I not know this?”
“Because I didn’t cook when I was seventeen?”
She stopped to face him. “No, I mean, how come you’re all over the media for threesomes and models shrieking at you, but not for your football camp or your cooking skills?”
Passing a mom with two kids playing in her cart, they split up and met on the other side. “I’d like to keep my camp on the down-low for as long as possible. First, I don’t want anyone to associate me with Calamity, but secondly, I don’t want paparazzi hanging around, disturbing the kids and their families.”
“I wonder how long that’ll last.”
“This is our third year, and it’s worked so far.”
She’d chosen the wrong aisle to cruise. They didn’t need canned fruit or vegetables. “I think it’s amazing that you do it. Those kids are lucky. How do you choose who gets to go?”
“We research community demographics, talk to rec centers and schools, looking for the kids we think will be a good fit for our program.”
“Oh, so they don’t just apply?”
“It wouldn’t work very well if we did that. It’s pretty intense physically, so we’re looking for the right fit. When we find them, we offer scholarships.” He lifted his cap, ran fingers through his hair, and set it back down, tugging until he got it where he wanted. “And why would I be in the news for cooking?”
“Because it’s the opposite of your playboy persona. People should know things like that about you.”
“They know what the press tells them.”
“That’s my point. Be a guest chef at a restaurant. Do a football clinic at the stadium over spring break. You don’t have to be a victim to the press. Do things that showcase a whole other side of you. Invite them to see it.” She pushed around the corner, turning up the next aisle. “Okay, so, it’s Sunday night, what ingredients are you buying?”
“A big bag of quinoa, a pile of fresh vegetables. Some unsalted broth. Maybe some garbanzo beans. And lots of fresh herbs.”
“Fresh herbs? The badass football player buys fresh herbs?”
“If he wants his food to taste good, he does.”
“Fine. Then, that’s what we’re making, a big ole vat of quinoa and mixed veggies.”
“Not sure Andy’s going to like that.”
She tossed a box of Ritz crackers into the cart for the retired ball player.
“Also, my suite doesn’t have cookware, so we’ll have to get those big aluminum pans.”
“Great. You do the main meal, and I’ll handle the appetizers.” She snatched two more boxes of crackers off the shelf.
“We’re putting Brie on those?”
“Of course not, silly.” She pulled down a can of cheese. “We’re putting this on them.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“How would you know, Mr. My Body is My Temple? Have you ever tried it?”
“Will it make me run faster? Throw more precisely?”
“I’m down to put it to the test if you are.”
“Training camp starts in six weeks, leave my temple alone.”
Further up the aisle, they came upon cookies. “What were you thinking for dessert?”
“I’ll get some berries, some fresh cream…”
“Yeah, okay. You’ve got enough on your plate with the main meal. I’ll take care of appetizers and dessert.” She snatched a package of frosted animal crackers.
“That’s not…” He pulled the bag out of her hands and shoved it back. “Okay, no. We’re not serving toddlers.” He nudged her aside and took over the cart. “Jesus, no one would believe you’re Tyler Cavanaugh and Joss Montalbano’s daughter.”
“I’ll tell you what, when you grow up weighing portion sizes and finding raw broccoli in your lunch bag, you tend to go wild when you leave home.”
“That was nine years ago. You haven’t found some kind of balance by now?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” She tossed a bag of Twizzlers into the cart.
He looked at them like they were poisonous snakes. “We’re like night and day.”