“Dates? As in plural? I thought it was just one.”
“Well, there’s the one first date. And then you said I could meet your friends, and then there’s the wedding. So that’s…” He counted on his fingers. “That’s like three dates.”
My eyelid twitched. “Do you have any wine?”
“No.”
I moved for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Nine
QUINN
While Jaime ran upstairs for a bottle of wine, I opened my laptop, put on some music, and started taking out the ingredients to make pizza. When I was working a lot, I never ate things like pizza¸ but it was something I really enjoyed making and eating now that I didn’t have to be so strict about my diet. I even had a pizza peel and stone so I could do it right, and I’d grabbed my kitchen boxes out of storage last week so I could cook for myself again. Hotel living was horrible that way.
I pulled out yeast, flour, sugar, sea salt, and olive oil, setting them on the counter. Next, I found a mixing bowl and liquid measuring cup in a cupboard and ran the tap to warm up the water.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
When was the last time I’d felt this happy? Before my mom died? I couldn’t even remember. In general, I was an upbeat person who managed to find silver linings and didn’t tend to fret over things I couldn’t change, but it had been a while since I’d felt this good. Was it because I hadn’t had sex in months and had broken a rare dry spell? Or was it her?
I thought about it as I whisked together the dry ingredients, then added the water and olive oil. I’d figured sex would be good with her—not only was she smoking hot and temperamental, but we’d wanted it for so long—what I hadn’t counted on was how much fun it would be. How much I’d enjoy the challenge of her. How much I was hoping she’d want to do it again later tonight (and for fuck’s sake, let me take some time with it…there were all sorts of ways I wanted to please her), and then again in the morning before she left for work.
Of course, that was before I knew about her No Sleepover rule. I’d have to work on that, but not tonight. She’d only turn me down, and I’d learned it was better to let her come looking for things.
Shaking my head, I laughed out loud thinking about the way I’d discovered her in the closet. It was so ridiculous. No complaints about where it went after that, though.
Jaime appeared in the kitchen doorway a few minutes later, a bottle of wine in her hands and an amused expression on her face. “From the sounds coming through the floor up there, I thought maybe the ghost of Prince was down here cooking me dinner.”
“Alas. It’s only me.” I wiped my hands, crossed myself, and glanced skyward before turning the volume down. “Rest in peace, brother.”
She opened a drawer and looked in. “Oh good, you do have a corkscrew,” she said, pulling it out. “I couldn’t remember if there was one here.”
“How come so much stuff was left when the former tenant moved out?” I grabbed the biggest bowl I had and greased it with olive oil.
“She found a job in London, where her boyfriend was, and moved in with him, poor girl. She didn’t want to take all this stuff since she knew she wouldn’t need it, so we said it was OK to leave things.” She uncorked the bottle and poured red wine into two glasses. “Once she was gone, I came in and cleaned and organized everything. I’m glad it worked out for you.”
“Me too.” I put the dough in the bowl and covered it with a towel. “I only had to take a few boxes from storage. God, I missed having a kitchen.”
“So you’re a good cook, huh?” she asked, handing me a glass.
I shrugged. “I’m OK. My mom taught me a few things growing up, and while she lived with me in L.A. we’d cook together when she felt up to it. Not that she ate much.”
“Your mom was a great cook.”
“She was.” I took a drink. “Want to go sit down? We need to let the dough rise for a while.”
“OK.” She followed me into the living room, where we settled next to each other on the couch. The curtains were open, and we both stared out at the snow for a moment.
“My mom actually liked winter,” I said. “It’s one of the reasons she never wanted to move away from here.”
“You must miss her.”
“Every day,” I said. “I feel like I didn’t get enough time with her, you know? It’s like, when you’re young, you can’t wait to get away from home, and it’s only later that you appreciate what your mom—or dad, or whoever raised you—did for you. Only later that you realize you should have listened closer, that you weren’t done learning from them, that you still have questions about life.”
She nodded, looking over at me. “What would you ask her now if you could?”
“More about her life—her childhood growing up in Hamtramck, what it was like being the daughter of immigrants, why she waited so long to get married and start a family. She was over forty when she had me, which I didn’t ever think about before, probably because anything over twenty-five seemed fucking ancient anyway, but now I wonder about it. And when my father left her alone with a baby, what was that like for her?” I took another drink before going on. I’d never said these things out loud before, but it felt good, actually. “Was she angry? Hurt? Did she miss him? She never talked about him, and I had zero memories of him, of course, so it wasn’t as if I missed him and asked questions. But what was he like? What made her fall in love with him?”