Best Friend's Ex Box Set

She walked slowly over to me with a pouty face, tapping me gently on the arm before pulling a large smirk across her lips. We walked back to the car and hopped in, leaning back in the seats. I let out a deep breath. That had been really fun. We drove off toward her house, the date being over, but me desperately not wanting to take her home. When we arrived, I walked her to the door and leaned in, giving her a restrained kiss.

Though I was incredibly attracted to Elana in every way possible, I was dedicated to taking things slowly, just as I had told her. It wasn’t just for her, though. It was for me, too. I figured if we took our time and really enjoyed each other, we had a better chance at working through our own personal issues while keeping the relationship intact. I had to admit, though, it was hard letting her go without kissing her senseless. I jumped in the car with electricity moving swiftly through my chest, watching her hips sway as she moved through the door and inside. I sighed as I pulled off, looking down and realizing that, yet again, I had an erection from just thinking about Elana. I knew then that it was going to be a really long couple of days until I got to see her again, and I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out.

Chapter 22

Elana

I was glad that the day after we had our golfing date, Ollie decided to give me a call and plan dinner for the next night. It was Friday, which made it that much easier to relax on my way over to his place. He was providing his payment for losing our friendly little wager, and I was nervous to know what he was cooking. I pulled up in front of his house, slightly in awe at the size of his place. I kept forgetting that he wasn’t a college student anymore and actually had a really lucrative job. He answered the door and kissed me on the cheek, heading quickly back to the kitchen.

I was impressed when a really good smell came wafting from the back of the house. It smelled like real food, and as I walked through the doors, I couldn’t see any takeout boxes anywhere. Maybe he had been joking about sucking at cooking. It would actually be impressive if he knew how to make a good meal. Most men weren’t up to that task, especially these days where they were in a constant battle for promotions at work and always being reminded that they were responsible for the family not the dinner.

I watched him move through the kitchen, looking surprisingly at home. I did notice, though, that his pots and pans looked pretty much new, like they had never been used. Maybe he bought new ones when he moved here. Or maybe he was like me, hating to cook for just one person. Either way, I was relieved that nothing was on fire or smelled bad, both red flags at how the dinner was actually going to turn out. He smiled at me as I took a seat at the breakfast bar and watched him walk over to the stove and stir a pot of something that was boiling. It looked like some sort of noodles, which made me happy, since I pretty much lived off of Italian food and never complained when someone actually wanted to do the cooking instead of me for a change.

He put the lid on the pot and turned toward me, leaning against the counter. I smiled and looked around his place, realizing he hadn’t quite had a chance to do much decorating. His kitchen was pretty bare, but then again, most kitchens were. I looked to my left, down into the large living room where the furniture was set up, but there weren’t really any pictures or trinkets anywhere. No wonder he was having a hard time feeling at home. He hadn’t made his house into one yet. Maybe over time, I could convince him to let me decorate the place, especially since I loved doing that kind of thing.

I looked back at him as the alarm on the microwave’s timer chimed. He stood back and opened the oven, smiling at his creation as he donned oven mitts and pulled the dish out of the oven. He set it on the stove and took the foil off of the top, the delicious smell filling the house. Although from there, I couldn’t really tell what it was. He then drained the pasta into a colander and let it sit while he finished seasoning the sauce heating on the stove. It did look like a strange pairing, but I wasn’t going to complain. He was making an effort, and that alone was pretty amazing. I didn’t think I had ever had a guy make an effort like that for me before, especially not after losing a bet. Most guys that I had dated wouldn’t have ever accepted me beating them at anything. After all, I was just a “cute little librarian from Madison.”

I shook the thought from my mind, it already irritating the hell out of me. How could I have ever thought that having higher standards than what I was being shown was a bad thing? I couldn’t believe that I had actually thought about dating some of these guys. Ollie walked over in front of me and bowed, making me giggle.

“Would my illustrious mistress like a glass of wine?”

“Oh,” I said, sitting up straight. “Of course, servant. How could you be so stupid to think not?”

“My apologies,” he chuckled.

I smiled as he walked over to the wine cabinet installed in his kitchen like a fridge. The top was stocked full of white wines and the bottom full of red. It was obvious that both sections ran separately and that one cooled the whites while the other was a humidifier of sorts. He carefully chose one from the top and one from the bottom, walking over and presenting them to me.

“Your humble servant has both red and white,” he said, bowing his head.

“I would like the white please,” I said.

He nodded and picked the bottles back up, walking them over to the back counter. I watched as he pulled out a corkscrew and opened up the bottle, breathing in the aroma as he pulled out the cork. He grabbed a wine glass and poured the wine, swirling it around in the glass as he approached.

“Madam,” he said, setting it in front of me. “That was a good choice.”

He then leaned in and gently kissed me on the neck, taking his hand towel and throwing it over his shoulder as he walked back over to the stove. I couldn’t help but smile, seeing the happiness and life rolling through him. It was both flattering and relatable that being in his life made that much of a difference in how he felt on a mental and pers

onal level. However, knowing that he did the same for me, I could completely understand.

Just from watching him walk around the kitchen, I could tell he put a lot of thought into dinner. I didn’t know if he made this from scratch or a can, but it didn’t matter. What mattered to me was the fact that he had put his heart into it and wanted to make it a fun and happy evening. I leaned my head against my hand as I sat sipping my wine and waiting for dinner to be done.

“I have to say, I commend you for slaving so hard in the kitchen,” I said, smiling. “And you said you couldn’t cook.”

From the way he moved around and the comfortable nature of his body, he looked like a regular in the kitchen. Not to mention that him walking around with a towel thrown over his shoulder and his sleeves rolled up was incredibly sexy for some reason. Maybe it was the feeling of domestication, having a man in the house, cooking dinner, completely content. Or maybe it was just the fact that I was incredibly attracted to Ollie, almost as if we hadn’t had sex yet. Either way, I was definitely enjoying being there in that moment, and his house immediately felt comfortable. Now, all I needed to do was make it homier for him.

“Yeah, well, it may just be a Christmas miracle,” he joked.

“More like an ‘I can’t fail at this’ miracle.” I laughed. “I don’t know. I think it was a fib. I think you’re actually a crazy good chef. You just don’t want me to find out because you don’t want to be the person that is forced to cook all of the time.”

“If by chef, you mean Chef Boyardee.” He laughed, shaking his head. “No, I just discovered suddenly that I had a natural talent for cooking.”

“How miraculous,” I said, smiling. “Though, I’m praying we aren’t having Spaghetti-O’s and fake meat meatballs for dinner.”

“You ruin everything,” he said with a sigh. “I’m just kidding. It may not be filet mignon, but it’s definitely better than spaghetti from a can. At least, I hope so. Making sure I knew how to cook was not on the top ten list of things for my parents to teach me. My father figured if I could make toast and use a microwave, that was enough for me to survive. Besides, he always figured that I would be successful enough to not cook my own food. Turns out, I’m a wizard in the kitchen. Who would have guessed?”

He twirled the spoon in his hand over his head, losing control of it and watching it plummet to the floor. I laughed loudly as some sort of sauce hit him on the cheek, and he bent down, picking it up, blushing. I had never actually seen him blush before, and I found it endearing and sweet, something I could use to tame the attraction to him that was floating around in my belly.

“Did your mom teach you to cook?” he asked.