"Rachael is tasting cakes tonight with my brother."
"Right, I know. I was, um, going for moral support."
A corner of Brook's full, sexy stupid mouth lifted. "You're a good friend to be with her in these trying times."
"I am."
She stared at him, willing that taunting smile to wither and die on his lips. Or maybe just for his lips to wither and die. That way, she wouldn't be so forcefully reminded of what they'd felt like on her own, or how soft they'd been as they travelled down her neck and caressed her collar bone...
"Hey, I don't mean to be rude, but what's that smell?" His dark brow crinkled and she sniffed the air.
Shit.
Burned Garlic.
"Shit." She ran toward the kitchen, nearly slipping when her soles met the slick linoleum floor. On the stove, her huge metal pot from Italy was smoking from the sides of the burner and acrid grey fumes were pouring from the pot's contents. She rushed to move the pot, muttering curses under her breath as she went.
She'd never be able to get another pot like this one. It had been so perfect and beautiful. A gift on her wedding day.
The one good thing about her wedding day.
"Double shit," she grumbled, then lifted her wooden spoon to find a red charred disaster in its place. Staring at the inside of the pot, though, it might have been a miracle the wood hadn't just disintegrated into the boiling bubbling goo that was her pasta sauce.
"I'm really sorry." His deep voice grumbled from behind her and she turned to find Brooks staring at the spoon.
"It's okay. No big deal. I can get something on the road." She dropped the mangled wood into the pot and leaned back against the builder's special slab that passed for her countertop.
Of course this was what would happen when Brooks Adams just randomly stopped by her house. He couldn't have caught her on her way to the opera, festooned in diamonds and class. No, he had to drop by when she was one set of curlers shy of running a cat hotel and nearly catching her damned house on fire.
At least she could live up to his expectations.
Brooks took a step toward her and her breath caught despite herself. Even after all of this, she reacted to him?
Life was getting more unfair by the second
"Natalie," he started, "you and I both know your big plans for tonight were to watch Jeopardy and eat...I'm sorry, I can't really tell what that was supposed to be?"
"Spaghetti sauce." She mumbled.
"I messed it up. Let me order you a pizza to make up for it."
She surveyed him. He did look sincere. Of course, that was probably pretty easy for him to fake with those big, baby blue eyes of his.
But if she let him order the pizza, did that mean he'd stay to eat it? And if he stayed, did that mean...
Her heart thumped harder in her chest, and she cleared her throat. "Uh, no, that's okay."
"Right. What do you like on your pizza?" He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and then gazed down at it as he entered in the numbers.
"No, I said—"
"I know what you said, but I can't imagine anything sadder than you spending tonight alone in your bunny slippers watching Jeopardy and eating burned spaghetti. So, what do you like on your pizza?"
"They're not bunnies, they're—"
"Natalie."
She sighed. "Mushrooms, please." She hated herself for answering. Or, at least she wanted to.