“Take your bags off; stay awhile,” I said to her, teasingly.
She looked up at me, lips pursed, trying her damnedest not to crack a smile.
“Let me cook for you,” I offered, realizing the more I spoke, the more I found my voice again. It got a little easier with each sentence as the muscle memory took over. And like with my niece, the way G’s face lit up with my words made me want to say more. In all honesty, I’d rather sign, even if it meant I had to speak at the same time for her to understand me.
“I can cook, you know.” She was trying to stare daggers at me, but doing a very shitty job of it. I gave her the okay sign with an over exaggerated wink and a curl of my lip as if to say yeah, sure you can. Yeah, I was poking her a little bit, but it was fun. She was cute when she was pissed off.
“Are you trying to manipulate me into cooking dinner?” Her eyes locked firmly on mine.
“Is it working?” I asked. Lifting my palms, I shrugged innocently.
Her chest rose and fell with a heavy breath. Reluctantly, she pulled off the thermal headband wrapped around her hair, shoving it in her pocket. She then kicked off her shoes and tore those dumb plastic bags off her feet. Lastly, she shrugged off her jacket and tossed it over the back of the sofa. She then walked around to my side of the counter in her sock-covered feet.
Grabbing her long, chestnut hair, she pulled it into a knot on the top of her head, like she meant business. “You. Go.” she pointed to the living room.
Pouring myself a half glass of whiskey, I turned, winked, gave her a little half-bow, and followed it with a sweeping wave to my kitchen. Letting her know it was all hers, I then sauntered out of the room.
Okay, I was the biggest sucker on the planet.
This handsome, charming man had somehow convinced my dumb-ass self not only to stay for dinner, but to make it for him in a kitchen that belonged to another woman.
Granted, she was deceased. But if I was her ghost, I’d haunt the hell out of my ass.
As I rifled through the kitchen, I tried very hard not to think about what he’d just told me, but it was like a beating drum in my head. How did his wife die? How long ago? Was she also Deaf? The questions continued to roll through my head, and the protests came even louder. What are you doing, Gia? You shouldn’t be here, playing house with a strange man. It was all wrong.
I’d known the man a little over twenty-four hours, but thanks to cabin fever, it felt like much longer. And I couldn’t keep myself away from him. It was like this crazy, magnetic force that was stronger than my own will.
So, I opted for rationalization. Tanner had kindly made me breakfast, and he’d been so gracious about the break-in, that the very least I could do was repay the favor. So, I continued on my mission of making him a hot meal. Searching through his fridge and pantry, I found a box of pasta, some marinara sauce, veggies, and some sausage. Before I knew it, I had some semblance of a meal forming. I was Italian after all. With a little pasta and meat, I could turn anything into a masterpiece.
I spent more time trying to figure out where the pots and pans were than it took for the meal. Once I had the utensils it was stupid easy. I sautéed the veggies with the sausage as I boiled the pasta and warmed the sauce. Every once in a while, I’d glance over at Tanner kicked back on his large sofa, reading his novel by the roaring fire, and I’d catch him looking up at me. Each time he caught my eye, he suddenly would avert his gaze and become very interested in the words on the page again.
Within thirty minutes, I had our food plated and sitting on the table.
“Dinner’s ready!” I instinctively called out.
Tanner was still engrossed in his book. Shit. I forgot that shouting wasn’t going to work with him. So, I did the next best thing I could think of. I went over to the light switch and flipped it off and on a couple times.
His head snapped up and he looked over at me.
Works like a charm.
I bobbed my head to the table. He closed his book, pulled his feet off the ottoman, and set the novel down on the cushion. Standing, he lifted his arms above his head, stretching, his t-shirt tugging against every ripple in his arm, and showing a hint of that delicious v-line. I tried very hard not to choke on my own tongue.
As I watched him walk into the kitchen, I was ravenous for more than just the meal. How was it possible for a man to be so damn sexy in sweatpants and a faded tee? Yes, the suit was lingerie for men, but when it’s all your man wore, it got a bit exhausting. Seeing a man comfortable and casual was a breath of fresh air.
This is all wrong. Get it together girl.
I closed my eyes, swallowed hard, and reminded myself not just of the fact that I was very pregnant and on the lam, but that I was married to a man that made Don Corleone look like a saint. Oh, and I was leaving as soon as the roads cleared. I filled two glasses of water, placing one next to his plate and one next to mine, then I stood there, waiting for him to sit.
Tanner scratched his tousled locks and looked at the table, then to me, very confused.
“What?” I asked, looking over to him.
He pointed to his dish at one end and mine at the other. But I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. Was there a problem with the food? What did I do wrong? Everything was exactly as it should be, right in place. I guess that he must have seen the confusion on my face.
He shook his head, grabbed his plate, and moved it to the bench adjacent to my chair, then motioned to my seat.
Oh. He wanted to sit next to me. Not just that, he wanted me to sit down first, and the next thing I knew, he was pulling out the chair for me.
Holy shit. Was this…a date? It sure as hell felt like one. Dear god, Gia. What have you done? I cursed myself internally once again.
Well, this was new. In my home, Angelo always sat at one end, I at the other, and I never sat until Angelo did. Our dining experiences had been very formal.
Before Tanner sat down, he went to the kitchen, opening up the first drawer, and grabbed a notepad and a pen before he came back to the table, plopping it down between us. Then, he doubled back, went to the fridge, and grabbed a can of Coke. Lifting it up, wiggling it in the air, he looked to me.
I shook my head, no thanks.
Finally, he sat, then immediately grabbed the pen and scrawled across the paper. This looks delicious. Thank you.
I liked looking at his handwriting. It felt oddly personal and intimate. Not to mention, his penmanship was fantastic. He wrote in crisp, blocky letters that were oh, so masculine. Most of the boys I knew back in school had writing that looked like chicken scratch.
At last, he picked up his fork and dug in. I followed suit and we ate in silence for several moments.
Eventually, he took a big swig of his Coke, then picked up the pen again. Would you like some wine?
God, I would have killed for a glass of wine to ease the nerves and guilt weighing on my chest. But I shook my head. “I’m not a big drinker,” I said around a mouthful. God, I hope he caught that.
Shaking his head, he picked up the pen and wrote again while he chewed. No coffee, soda, or wine. I’d say that you were a health food nut, but I’ve seen what you eat. After swallowing his bite, he looked up at me, grinning like a fool.
Laughing, I gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. I actually loved all of those—soda, coffee, and wine. But all were not great during pregnancy. I’d allowed myself some coffee on the road to stay awake, but I needed to keep my caffeine consumption down.