Maybe the cold feet are about something else or someone else. I step into the kitchen, seeing Slade at the stove. He’s changed, too, wearing baggy sweatpants and a white T-shirt with no socks. But his sweatpants look much better on him than my shorts look on me. I shouldn’t be noticing that.
He looks back over his shoulder at me. “Tonight, we have steak.”
“Smells good,” I say, unable to remember the last time I had steak. “But we need some sides.”
“Learn that on those cooking shows you watch?” he asks. I freeze, my feet unable to move. Told you these floors are cold. He glances back at me. “Paige?”
“Are there cameras in the house?” I ask. “Are you watching me?” He steps away from the stove, his blue eyes giving nothing away. “Answer me.”
“I’m just confused,” he says. “Where is this coming from?”
“How’d you know I watch the Cooking Channel?” I ask.
He gives me a little shrug. “When I turn on any television in this house, that’s the channel that comes on. I’ve never known Catrine to watch cooking shows, so I assumed it was you.”
My body starts to thaw. “Sorry.”
He turns back to his meat. “There’s something like three hundred channels. So what’s up with you watching cooking all the time?”
I move closer. The steaks look almost done, leaving me no time to make any real side dishes. Opening up the refrigerator, I pull out the spinach salad I made earlier. “It relaxes me.”
“Maybe you should forget medicine and become a chef, or start your own business making organic baby food.” He throws me a smile over his shoulder, seeing me pouring the salad on two plates. “No green stuff tonight,” he pouts.
“But this one has bacon on it,” I say, only it comes out flirtier than I intended.
This time, I set our places at the island with real napkins. It’s strange to have a routine with him after two meals, but we move around the kitchen like we’ve been in here a hundred times together. We sit and eat. He even tries the salad. Well, he picks the bacon out and says he tried the salad. We both clean up, and I try my level best to ignore the electricity between us. I wonder if he feels it. It’s like we orbit around each other, instinctively knowing where and how the other one is moving.
I realize I don’t know much about my new boss. He’s sexy, handsome, rich, works hard, likes horses, and hates vegetables, but not much else. I guess it’s fair. He doesn’t know much about me, and most of what he does know he doesn’t really know. Still, I find myself curious.
“I was wondering . . .” I stop myself, but it’s too late.
“What?” he asks, leaning against the kitchen island.
“I don’t know much about you,” I say, realizing this is risky. Asking him about himself opens me up to questions.
“You want some sort of get-to-know-you session?” he teases.
God, he’s handsome when he smiles. “Favorite color?” I ask with a grin.
“Green,” he deadpans.
“It is not!” I laugh. “Tennessee Titans or Nashville Predators?”
“Football or hockey,” he says. “Tough one. I’ve got season tickets to both.”
“Country music fan?”
“This is Nashville. Kind of have to be.” I wrinkle my nose. “No?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Guess I’m a rebel.”
“Me, too,” he says.
“Give me one example,” I say.
“Hired you,” he says. “That’s not playing it safe.”
“Guess not,” I say. “You like to live on the edge?”
“I like to make my own decisions,” he says. “If I fail, then at least I did it my way.”
“Me, too,” I say, our eyes meeting. Somehow this well-off bachelor and I are more alike than I could’ve imagined.
“Is that why you don’t work with your father?” I ask, knowing I’m pushing the limits. Favorite color is one thing, but family is a whole other level. “I know he’s some big finance guy or something.”
He nods. “Owns his own investment firm. I’d never work for him. I started working when I was fifteen and saved, not wanting a cent from him. Went to college, double majored in business and construction engineering, then took out a huge loan to do my first real estate development when I was around your age, right after I graduated.”
“Risky,” I say. “What was it?”
“You know that ice skating rink and go-kart track out on Interstate 24?”
“That place is always crowded. You did that?”
“Yep, even worked there for a while to make sure things ran smoothly. Built the business, then sold it for a pretty penny. Used the profits to finance my next build and so on.”
“Wow,” I say. “You seem to love it.”
“There’s something about taking a piece of land or an old, run-down building and . . .”
“Rescuing it,” I say, thinking he’s done the same thing with me.
“Seeing the beauty in what others can’t,” he says, his voice low.
The heat in the kitchen suddenly went up a few thousand notches. “I’m just gonna . . .” I head toward the den, and he does the same. But I stop at the entrance. Usually, I plop down on the sofa, but I can’t do that now. I don’t even know if I should sit on the same surface as him. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I say.
“No cooking show tonight?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Good night.”
“Paige,” he says, “sleep well.”
I smile, thinking there’s no hope for sleep. This house is a curse to my REM.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks. The confusion must show on my face. “The alarm,” he says.
“Oh right,” I say, crossing the room to activate it.
“Have you been arming it every night?” he asks.
“Yes,” I lie, unsure if I’ve activated it at all since the last time he reminded me. I need to develop a new habit of setting it.
He gets up, walking toward me. The man is mammoth. It’s not just his physical presence. It’s more than that. Everything about him overwhelms me. “Why are you lying to me?” he whispers.
“This job is important to me,” I say. “I swear, I’m setting it when I go out to the store and stuff. I just forget at night. I mean to set it before I go to bed, but I’m not really sleeping.”
“I’m not mad,” he says. “You’re out here all alone. The alarm is important to keep you and Finn safe.”
I nod. “How’d you know I was lying?”
“The same way I know you’re lying about the Cooking Channel relaxing you,” he says, tilting my chin up softly with his fingertips. “Look at me.”
I look up at him from under my lashes, and the truth starts to spill out of me. One look into his blue eyes can do that. “Lots of times, I’d go to bed hungry,” I say. “My mom didn’t always buy food, but we always had the television. You’d think those shows would make it worse, but they didn’t. I’d sit and watch and pretend all that food was for me.”