“Famous, huh?” I feel my brows rise as I stare at the wall of wine. “How about this Barbera wine from Italy?”
“Sounds perfect.”
Spencer pulls up the recipe on the touch screen as I pour the wine.
Upbeat jazzy Christmas music filters through the space as he chops the onions and heats olive oil in a large pan. I sit at the island sipping my wine, wondering how the hell I ended up in Spencer Ward’s penthouse.
My eyes flick to the windows. Oh yeah, the measly blizzard.
Things could be worse. I could be sleeping with one eye open at the airport.
At least I’m here with a friend.
A friend?
You haven’t seen Spencer since high school. Well, besides watching him on TV every Sunday afternoon. Monday night. Thursday night.
Just enjoy this for what it is and put anything else out of your mind.
CHAPTER TWO
Spencer
The meat begins to brown, and I add in onion, garlic, along with some beef bouillon.
Even though I feel like I rarely have the time, I enjoy cooking for other people. Sad really, given the fact that I’m very much a bachelor and the only family I have is my sister, Indira. She lives in Tennessee with her boyfriend, Trey.
But tonight, I get to cook for someone—Amy Robertsen. My first crush.
Is it pathetic I still remember the way her lips felt against mine all those years ago?
How is it possible that she’s even more gorgeous than she was when we were in high school?
Drumming her red nails against the Silestone countertop, she takes a long drink of wine and then refills her glass. I like that she’s not shy about it.
I continue to stir the meat, adding a bit of white wine, and finding it hard to concentrate with Amy sitting in front of me looking sexy as hell in dark denim jeans and a tight red sweater.
“Why are you using white wine?” Curiosity beams in her eyes and her light brown hair hangs over her shoulders in loose waves.
“What?”
“For the Bolognese,” she juts her chin towards the saucepan. “You’re using white wine instead of red. I was just wondering why you chose white.”
“Does your management analysis job include recipes?”
Her head tips back when she laughs. “No, but I like to use red when cooking, especially Italian recipes.”
“Either is fine for Bolognese. White wine is more authentic in my opinion.”
“I’m definitely rethinking my choice of using the red though, this sauce smells amazing. I might eat my own arm.”
“But you had Doritos at the airport.”
She laughs. “Don’t remind me. I love Doritos, but I love my mom’s home cooking more. She makes the best mashed potatoes. I’d be having them right now,” she moans. “Stupid snow.”
“Do you always have Christmas Eve, Eve with your family?” I turn my attention back to the stove adding in crushed tomatoes, sugar, and a touch of Worcestershire.
“Yeah. It’s a whole deal with all the traditions and then we slide right into Christmas Eve. Of course, I skip out on midnight mass. And then there’s Christmas Day. Presents. Too much food. Some football.”
I waggle my brows. “Do you happen to watch the Renegades?”
She shakes her head. “Never.”
“Something tells me that you’re lying.” I take a drink of wine.
Adorably she lifts a shoulder and smiles. “This is exactly why I don’t play cards. I’m an easy read.”
Part of being a quarterback is reading people. With Amy though, she’s definitely not an easy read.
The door is wide open for me to ask the million-dollar question—why did you kiss me and then pretend like it never happened?
Amy ignored me like her life depended on it after we kissed at the mall. I thought it was a good kiss. A great kiss in fact. But apparently, she didn’t think so.
Instead, I return to the task at hand and dump the noodles into the boiling water. I reach up for the salt and feel a twinge of hot blazing pain shoot down my shoulder and my arm.
Fucking injury.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tweaked a muscle in the game. I heal pretty fast.”
Liar.
New topic needed.
Her phone chimes and she smiles when she glances at the screen.
“Boyfriend?”
Her head rears back as her eyes narrow. Looking at me like I asked the most ridiculous question ever asked.
“Uh no. It’s Alex and his kids. They’re making sugar cookies.” Her eyes meet mine cracking with intensity. “Why do you ask? Are you seeing someone? Because I don’t want to be caught up in a weird other woman drama situation.”
“No. I’m totally single.”
“I haven’t dated in a while. Work keeps me busy and my last relationship went up in flames. I blame my psychic for that hot mess.”
I laugh and set a napkin with silverware in front of her. “You see a psychic?”
“Not anymore.”
“I feel like there’s a story there.”
When everything is finished, I join her at the island. I managed to whip up two Italian salads with pepperoni and black olives. And by the grace of goodness, my housekeeper, Mrs. Young, bought a fresh loaf of crusty French bread.
“This looks amazing,” Amy says draping the cloth napkin over her lap. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad I finally have someone that I can impress with my cooking skills.”
Blush flames her cheeks. That’s a good sign, right?
“You don’t get to cook that often?” she asks, before digging into the salad.
“Comes with the job. Training. Practice. Watching game film. More workouts and of course the games. Doesn’t leave me any time for much else. My housekeeper usually makes my dinners. She’s the one who really benefits from the kitchen.”
“That’s a shame. You’ve got a nice space here. I love that the stove is in the island and the sink is on the back wall. My apartment is laid out totally the opposite of yours.”
“You still live in Grosse Point?”
“No. I moved to Grand Rapids four years ago when my dad retired from the shipping company. He offered me the CEO position, but I turned him down. So he gave it to my cousin, George.”
“You didn’t want to be CEO?” I finish my salad and dish up some pasta.
“No. I didn’t feel like I was living my passion. Plus I got some advice from my psychic and she told me that I wouldn’t be happy with my current promotion.”
“That’s when you decided to get a new career path?” I tear off a piece of bread and dip it into the marinara.
“Yep. I like the work. My clients are interesting, and I get to travel.” She waves her hands in the air. “And I get to spend time in places like New York.”
“New Jersey.”
She smiles and pushes her salad bowl to the left. “Right. New Jersey. And I’ll take some of that pasta now.”
“You got it.”
“Bring on the carbs.”
“Speaking of carbs. If you’re up for it, my neighbor, Mrs. Kilroy has an annual Christmas cookie decorating party. Lots of drinks, plenty of food, and games.”