Tempt The Playboy (Tempt 2)

“I can feel that.” She laughs, her lips still pressed to mine. “Now go relax,” she tells me, opening cabinets to collect stuff she will need.

“Just let me know if you need anything,” I tell her, making my way to the wine fridge. I notice that I have none. “I’m out of wine.”

She looks up from drawers that she is opening and closing. “Why don’t you go get some while I cook?”

“That sounds good. Is there anything else you need me to get?”

She shakes her head.

I run upstairs to grab a shirt and some shoes. When I get back into the kitchen, she has some jazz music flowing from her phone while she is cutting a red pepper. I walk to her, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind, kissing her neck. She leans her head away to give me access.

“Okay, call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” she sings out.

I walk to my car, getting in and opening the windows. Fuck, it stinks. “I need to get this shit washed,” I tell myself. I make the first stop at the Home Depot store, buying some turpentine. Then hit up the wine store, walking out with a case of white and a case of red. Making my way home, I see that I’ve been out for about forty minutes. Grabbing the cases of wine one on top of the other, I carry them inside and I’m hit with the smell of char or burn.

When I make it into the kitchen, I see Kaleigh with her hair tied up, her sleeves pulled up, and the look of defeat on her face. “Honey, I’m home.”

Chapter Twelve

Kaleigh

The minute he shuts the door, I grab my phone to FaceTime Lauren. She answers on the second ring.

Her face comes into the screen. “What is on your face?” I ask, looking at her with a black mask.

“It’s a mask to detox. What do you want?” She tries not to move her lips so the mask doesn’t move.

“The recipe says to sauté the peppers and onions.” I look back at the recipe that I printed before.

“Okay,” she asks, not sure what the question is.

“What the fuck does that mean? Sauté. Is that code for something?”

“Jesus, you should have just got him pizza.” She shakes her head. “It means put oil in a pan and then add the peppers and onions and have them cook. Stirring them often to make sure they don’t burn. I would add some salt while they cook for flavor.”

“Okay, I think I can do that.” I nod, taking a silver frying pan out, pouring oil in the pan, and turning it on. Turning back, I ask her, “How do I know the oil is ready?”

“I’d wait about maybe a minute. It depends on the stove.” She starts to press down on the mask. “Then I would take the veggies out and do the steak.”

“Oh, shit, I have to cut the seitan.” I grab it out of the bag. “Okay, I’ll call you back if I need anything.”

“Don’t burn down his house.” Is the last thing she says before I disconnect.

I tie my hair on top of my head and push my sleeves up.

I open the seitan, slicing it thinly, my head moving to the music. When I finish cutting it, I put the cutting board in the sink. When I turn around, I see that the pan where the oil is in is now brown and smoke is starting to fill the room. “Shit,” I say, picking up the pot from the handle and turning the water on in the sink. The sounds of sizzle overpowers the music. “Fuck.” I open the fan and run to open the windows in the kitchen along with the back door. I pray that the fire alarm doesn’t go off. When I get back to the sink, I try to scrub the brown off the pan, but it’s useless. I grab another pan. It looks the same as the other one, so I put it back on the stove. I take the burnt pan and place it in the back of his cabinet, burying it under a couple of other pans. “Never happened,” I tell myself.

I get the oil out again, putting some in the bottom of the pan. “I’m not taking my eyes off this shit this time.” I wait a minute, counting to sixty in my head. I put the onions and peppers in the pan and coat them in oil. Adding salt, I turn to change the music on my playlist. When some dance music comes on, I start moving my hips while I stir the peppers and onions. “Why don’t I cook more often?” I ask myself.

I grab my phone and FaceTime Lauren again. I watch as it says connecting.

“Hey, are these ready?” I ask, turning the phone to the peppers and onions that are frying away.