“No worries. Before Ainsley, Jake and I used to use a delivery service. I’ll call them and get some stuff sent over. Maybe even make dinner for you tonight.”
I thought picturing her in the shower was bad, but that’s got nothing on the images swimming in my brain now. Brie hovering over a pot on the stove. In a frilly apron. And nothing else. It’s disturbingly both domestic and erotic at the same time. Weird. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t. But I want to. I told you, I’m a good cook. I make a mean vegetarian lasagna.”
“You’re vegetarian?” I ask, surprised. I swore off animal flesh after I watched that documentary on how the meat industry is killing the planet. But I’m pretty sure I saw Brie with a burger in her hand at the Lawson’s annual Fourth of July picnic last summer.
“No. But you are.”
Wow. She remembered. I’m surprised. And strangely flattered.
“I usually don’t get home until after ten,” I lie. I’m not sure why. Maybe because this is getting uncomfortably personal. I’ll never be able to keep her at arm’s length if she’s playing happy homemaker, cooking me dinner and catering to my personal preferences.
“No worries. That’s the beauty of lasagna. Easy to reheat. Just text when you’re on your way and I’ll have it ready for you.”
“Don’t you have to work?” I ask, suddenly remembering the new job that’s supposedly the reason for her change of address. Or, at least, the reason she gave to sucker me into taking her in.
“I’m not on the call sheet until Thursday. That’s why I picked today to move. Gives me a couple of days to get settled before I have to be on set.”
I hear a crash, then a long, plaintive meow and a muffled curse. “Get out of there, Mirri. And Ajani, don’t let him give you any ideas. I’m watching you, too.”
“He’s a she. They both are.” Their names are on their ID tags. But not their gender.
“Oops. Sorry about that, ladies.”
Brie giggles, and the sound shoots straight to my stupid cock, which I will to stand down. Otherwise I’ll wind up with a tent in my pants the size of Barnum and Bailey’s, and I’m fairly certain jerking off in the executive washroom is against company policy.
“I should have warned you that I had pets.” Which I would have, if I hadn’t been in such a damn rush to get out of there. “I hope you’re not allergic.”
“Nah, I’m cool with cats. Just not messing with my stuff when I’m trying to unpack.”
“Yeah, they love to go where they don’t belong. Especially if there’s boxes involved. And don’t let them try to convince you they’re hungry. I topped off their automatic feeder this morning.”
“Will do. I mean, won’t do.” Another crash, and more meows and mumbled swearing. “I’d better go finish putting this stuff away before they destroy everything I own. Don’t forget to text me when you’re heading home so I can heat up the lasagna.”
“I told you, you don’t have to—”
But it’s useless. She’s hung up, and I’m left preaching to a three-person choir.
Me, myself, and I.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brie
IMAYHAVEexaggerated my culinary skills.
Okay, so I’ve never made vegetarian lasagna. I’ve never made any lasagna. Except the kind that comes out of a box that you just stick in the oven. And even then, the first time I made it I didn’t realize you had to put a baking sheet under it and it leaked all over the place.
But I can read. And like my mom always says, if you can read, you can cook.
Let’s hope she’s right.
I grab the hand towels I’m using as oven mitts since I couldn’t find any anywhere in the restaurant-quality kitchen I doubt Connor’s ever used and gingerly open the oven door. It smells great. Tangy and spicy and tomato-y—if that’s a word—like a lasagna should. I think. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
I grab the edges of the baking sheet—I’m not making that mistake twice—pull it out of the oven, and set it carefully on the stove top, hip-checking the door closed. My lasagna looks a little, um, crunchier around the edges than the one in the picture next to the recipe I found on the internet, but I chalk that up to the few extra minutes I let it cook after the timer went off. I’d rather have crispy edges than lasagna soup.
I’m about cut into it and do a taste test when I hear a lock click and the front door swing slowly open. I run to the entryway, knife still in hand, not sure what I’m going to do with it or who I’m going to find there. It’s not even eight. Way too early for it to be Connor.
