“Wait . . . please, Erin,” I say, panting. When she looks at me, I can tell she is either upset or pissed, and I feel like a jerk for doing that to her. “Just . . . we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“The wrong foot?” She shakes her head, and I know she’s pissed. Her tone is that kind of “I want to kill you” tone I get quite often. I mean, often enough to know it, but usually, I shrug it off. This time, though, it does something.
“I’m sorry. I should have just listened instead of trying to justify every sordid moment of my past that’s been captured on video,” I say, and she crosses her arms over her chest.
“Do you know they have a nickname for your penis?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Do you know there is a website that has the number of women you have slept with on a ticker? Do you know the names of half the women you have slept with? Have you ever slept with the same person twice?”
“Yes?” I say to her on the last one. I mean, come on.
“I don’t mean twice in the same night. I mean, twice in the same week?” Okay, now she is getting picky. “There were pictures of you last week. You are pictured with ten different women.”
“So?” I say to her now, crossing my arms over my own chest.
“There are only seven days in the week.” Okay, fine, she got me there, but it isn’t my fault.
“I have a high sex drive,” I tell her, not even sure why I have to tell her details that are really none of her damn business.
“I don’t give a shit,” she says, and the way she swears makes me want to laugh. “I don’t care if you fuck up to five times an hour. What I care about is you doing it and it being on an Instagram or in a Snapchat video for the world to see.”
“I’m confused. Do you care or not?” I try to make a joke, but she just glares at me, so I hold up my hands. “Okay, how about we go back in, and we can talk about things?” I see that she isn’t falling for the old Carter Johnson charm. In fact, I think it’s the opposite. Can she be immune to it? “Grab your bag, and we can do all the brainstorming you want.”
She looks at me, and I can see that she doesn’t trust me. “I swear. I promise to be on my best behavior, and if I’m not, you can leave.”
“Fine,” she says, grabbing her bag and turning to walk back down the side stairs with me. We sit down, and I’m ready for whatever she throws at me. We go through all my Facebook accounts, and that one isn’t as bad as the rest are. I don’t tell her it’s because Jeff takes care of that one. Heck, she was actually excited about the state it was in. When we finish that, I look at the time and see it’s almost lunchtime.
“I need to eat since I have a photo shoot in two hours,” I tell her. “Why don’t you come inside, and you can sit at the counter and talk to me while I make us some lunch?”
“You are going to cook for me?” she asks in shock. “Like food, food or . . .?”
“I can cook,” I tell her, pushing away from the table and walking inside. She grabs her stuff and comes into the kitchen with me. Pulling out a chair, she sits as I open the fridge and grab a water bottle to hand to her. “You haven’t hydrated in at least two hours, so drink that,” I tell her, and she grabs the bottle and finishes half. “Why didn’t you ask me for water if you were thirsty?” I ask her, grabbing a red pepper, an onion, and a green pepper. I walk to the counter in front of her and set the ingredients down, then grab a cutting board and a knife. She doesn’t answer, and instead, she is straight back to business.
“How many times a week do you cook for yourself?” she asks me and grabs her phone and snaps a picture. “That is going to be your first ‘I’m a good boy on my best behavior’ Instagram picture.”
“You can even use that as a caption.” I wink at her, and she rolls her eyes at me. I begin to slice the vegetables. “I cook whenever I have a chance.”
“How did you learn to cook?” she asks me as I grab the chicken breast from the fridge. I drizzle some olive oil in the pan and sauté the veggies, turning to her.
“Is this an interview?” I joke with her, slicing the chicken into strips.
“No, but it’s good for me to know, so I can spin this into a positive thing.”
“My parents were really never parents, so I had to fend for myself,” I say, and I want to take it back. The last thing I want is to open that side of me up to her scrutiny. “They worked long hours.” I toss the chicken in with the veggies. “Are you a vegetarian?” I look in the pan and stir it with a wooden spoon. “I guess I should have asked before.” I look over my shoulder at her, and she snaps another picture.
“Nope, I eat everything,” she tells me, and I wait until the veggies and the chicken are done before I throw some salsa into the pan. After grabbing some tortillas and two plates, I place one plate in front of Erin on the counter and another next to her. I walk back to the fridge and grab some fresh guacamole and some pico de gallo.
“It smells so good,” she says, and I look over my shoulder at her and take in the moment right there. She is the first woman to step inside my new house, apart from my house cleaner. She’s the first woman I have cooked for in my house that is my haven.
I take the pan and put the food in a big dish, then bring it over to the counter. Sitting down, I place it in the middle of us. “This is my version of chicken fajitas,” I tell her and get up.
“Where are the utensils?” she asks, and I look at her as she casually walks in the back to grab them. I point at the drawer, and she comes back with four spoons and two forks. “Do you think I can have another water bottle?” she asks me, and I fumble with my words. “I can get it. Please, you did do all the cooking.” She walks over to the fridge and grabs two water bottles and then comes back.
I wait for her to serve herself, and then I go on the attack. She moans when she takes a bite and then looks at me. “This is so good.”
“This is the first time a woman has moaned in my house, and it had nothing to do with my Big Johnson.” I wink at her, and she throws her head back and laughs.
“Liar.” She shakes her head and takes another bite.
“Nope,” I say to her, grabbing another bite. “I never, ever bring anyone here. My last house, yes, but this is my space and mine only.”
“Oh, I get it,” she says. “The whole smash and go.”
“Smash and go?” I ask, confused.
“You have sex with them at their house or a hotel, so they don’t linger?” she says, taking a sip of water. “Smash and go.” I shake my head, thinking that is exactly what I do. The rest of the meal is quiet. When she’s finished, she gets up, rinses her plate off, and then opens the dishwasher to find it empty. “You cook; I clean. It’s the universal rule.”
“Wow, I’m just learning all kinds of things with you,” I tell her. Laughing, I pick up my plate and place it in the dishwasher. The doorbell rings, and I look at her and then at the time. Walking to the door, I see it’s the photographer for the shoot today. “Hey, come on in,” I tell him, and he walks in.