She was lonely, and he’d not thought of that. Feeling like a dick, he shrugged out of his jacket, wishing he could shrug as easily out of the asshat skin he’d been wearing. He’d been so caught up in his own shit that he hadn’t even realized how isolated she’d become after moving in here.
Simon walked around the island to peer over her shoulder into the pot. His chest brushed her back and he felt her freeze for a beat and then kind of melt into him.
Her body hadn’t gotten the memo either, and just like it always was with her, anticipatory tension danced in the air between them and stole his breath.
Emma turned to face him in the small space he’d left her, holding out a wooden spoon. “Spaghetti sauce,” she said. “It’s my only real kitchen talent.”
Holding her gaze, he took a nibble just as she said, “Mostly my talents lie elsewhere,” and made him choke.
She grinned at him while he nearly coughed up a lung.
“You’re evil,” he murmured, unable to hold back his smile. “I like that.”
“And the sauce?”
“Best thing I’ve tasted in a few days.”
He watched with erotic fascination as she did the math and color flared in her cheeks. Hard to believe he could react from just being near her, but that was exactly what was happening. To distance himself, Simon stepped up to the counter where she had salad makings spread on a cutting board. Grabbing a knife, he began to chop up the veggies. He finished a red pepper and offered a bite to Emma.
She took it with her teeth, making sure to nip his finger while she was at it. Not hard, but not soft either. When he sucked in a breath, she let go and laughed.
He turned back to the counter to finish chopping, then found himself pressed up against the granite when Emma had to reach around him to grab a few wineglasses from the cabinet in front of him.
He stilled, his breath catching. Turning in place, he came face-to-face with her.
They looked at each other for a long beat before he reached up and pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, his fingertips lightly stroking along her earlobe. “Why don’t you go sit down,” he said. “I’ll finish this up.”
“You’ve had a long day.”
“And I can tell by how you’re standing that yours was longer. Sit. I’ll serve you. Dad?” he called out. “It’s ready.”
Dale came in and sat with Emma. Simon served Emma first, then began to load up a plate for his dad, who gestured for more. “Don’t be stingy, son. I’m starving.”
“Guess all that flirting today with Mrs. McCreary was hard work.”
“I can’t help it if the ladies love me.” Dale pointed his fork at Simon. “If you need any tips, all you’ve gotta do is ask.”
Emma laughed.
Simon slid her a look, unable to help the smile he felt curve his mouth. “You think I could use some tips?”
She playfully shrugged, making Dale grin.
“Is it his talking game that’s off, or his kissing game?”
Emma bit her lower lip. “Well . . .”
Simon narrowed his eyes at her, and she laughed out loud, the sound utterly contagious.
“Okay,” she said. “So it’s not his kissing game.”
Dale nodded. “It’s his stubbornness, isn’t it. He’s not great about acknowledging relationship things like emotions.”
“Sounds like it runs in the family.”
Dale smiled. “Yes, but Alison doesn’t like emotions. Simon doesn’t have that problem. He likes ’em just fine, except for the deep ones. The deep ones scare the shit out of him.”
“They do not,” Simon said.
Dale rolled his eyes at Emma, who laughed again.
“So you agree,” Dale said.
“Well, I’m not one to judge on such matters,” she said diplomatically.
Simon snorted.
“Oh really. You have something to say on the matter?” she asked him, brow arched.
“Just wondering if you’re the kettle or pot?”
She gave a wry smile. “Possibly both.”
“Oh my God, this tastes delicious,” Dale said of her food, shoveling in spaghetti and sauce, missing his mouth every third or fourth bite. “Tell me you bake too.”
“I do make an amazing double-fudge cake that I save for special occasions, but it’s just from a box mix.”
His dad reached out and squeezed her hand. “Never save anything for a special occasion. Being alive is the special occasion.”
Emma smiled. “Cheers to that.”
Dale ate some more. “I used to cook some, after my Jenny died.” He pointed his fork at Simon. “This one hated everything I made.”
“That’s because you’d pan-fry some fatty ground beef, toss in a pot of overcooked macaroni and a soggy tomato, and call it health food.”
“Hey. That was decent stuff. And you were an ingrate. Remember that time you showed up needing money?”
“You mean on my twenty-first birthday?” Simon looked at Emma. “I was at a bar with my college roommates. I took six shots of tequila in about two hours. Woke up on my dad’s front lawn the next morning—and keep in mind that my college was three hundred miles away. Apparently the Uber driver asked for my address and I gave them Dad’s.”
“Hey, I paid the three-hundred-dollar fare,” Dale said.
Simon nodded. “Yep. And then you left me in the yard all night. I didn’t wake up until the sprinklers came on. At dawn.”
Emma covered her mouth to hide her laugh. “Tequila is the worst.”
“Agreed.” Simon shuddered at the memory. “But I really was a pretty shitty teenager.”
Dale shook his head. “That’s not what I said.”
“Ingrate then.”
Dale sighed. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’d lost your mom. Your world was hard then.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
Dale’s easy expression faded. “I could’ve been a better dad to you back then.”
Simon sighed. “Dad, come on. You did good.”
“No, I didn’t. I was locked in my own grief and that meant you were often completely on your own. Sometimes I think it convinced you that sometimes you still are. But you’re not. Alone. And you deserve the world.”
“Wow. The whole world?”
“Son, I’m trying to have a moment with you. Don’t ruin it.”
Simon smiled. “All right, Dad, let’s have a moment.”
Dale toasted him and winked at Emma, and Simon just shook his head, but he wasn’t irritated. He was something else entirely. He hadn’t seen his dad like this with anyone but himself or Alison in a long time. There was a carefree ease about him tonight, and sitting there laughing together felt . . . good. Everything about Emma felt good. Way too good to be true, in fact. What would happen if his dad got really bad again? Even though Simon and Emma were just friends now, would she walk away? Resent him for having no time for her?
She hasn’t done either in spite of you being an asshole, a voice whispered in his head.
But he knew better than to bank on hopes and dreams.
“Thanks for having me tonight,” Emma said.