Page 68 of The Sweetness of Life

“How often do you get them?” She pushes her hair off her face and then stretches her arm out, reaching for my hand.

“At least once a week, sometimes twice. You’ve seen two since you’ve been here, plus I had one the day you arrived.” I weave my fingers in between hers and rub the palm of her hand with my thumb.

Her frown deepens. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. I thought I’d have a much longer career than I did. I really love the game.” I do. People play for a lot of different reasons, but me, I loved everything about it, from being a part of a team to the strategy, even the travel—and there’s nothing like winning.

“But you love this, too, right?” she asks, curling her fingers around mine.

“I do. I was always set on buying my dad out and taking over, but what guy doesn’t have dreams about winning the Super Bowl and the hall of fame? Especially when you get as far into the game as I did.”

She gives me a small smile and nods her head in understanding.

“What about you—has your dream always been to cook?”

“Yes, but a little bit more than that. I told you when I was a kid that I watched a lot of Food Network, but like I mentioned at dinner, my dream has always been to have my own show.” She breaks eye contact with me like this admission is hard to say.

“So, you really want to be on television?” I don’t know why this surprises me; it shouldn’t. She’s gorgeous, everyone loves her, and she makes amazing food. Maybe it’s the thought of having to share her with the world, but that would be dumb because she isn’t mine to share.

“Yes, but not just any channel. I’ve always wanted to be a part of the Food Network family, more than you can even imagine. I was a communications major in college and then I went to culinary school. I’ve set myself on this path to build a strong case for myself. That’s why this project is just as important to me as it is to you. It’s another thing that puts me one step closer.”

I didn’t think it was possible for her to get any sexier, but I was wrong. Part of me is torn, loathing the idea of her being a workaholic, but the other part admires her dedication to what she ultimately wants. Listening to her and hearing the drive in her voice . . . such a huge turn-on.

“Tell me about where you came from. Tell me about your parents.”

She pulls her hand from mine and shifts so she’s sitting a little taller. Walls just went up around her as she tries to throw off an air of indifference.

“There isn’t much to tell.” She shrugs, but I can tell there is more to say. “I grew up in a small town in South Carolina where traditions and stereotypes seem to be one and the same.”

“What do you mean?” I resume rubbing her feet, and her shoulders drop just a little.

“Well, every Sunday, we showed our faces at church like the happy little family, but Monday through Saturday the whole town knew my father was having an affair with my mother’s best friend—who, by the way, would also attend Sunday service and kiss my mother on the cheek in greeting.”

“You’re joking?” I frown. “Didn’t your mother know?”

“I don’t know. She claimed she didn’t, but looking back, I don’t see how that’s possible. She had to have known, but where my mom turned a blind eye, the husband of the woman didn’t approve. The whole mess got pretty ugly, and in the end, my father claimed he only married my mother to get closer to my grandfather, who was the town mayor, and said he never wanted kids.”

I try to imagine what it would be like to hear my own father say this, and I can’t. Maybe this drive in her comes from a deeper place than I thought.

“What an asshole.” Fury slides into my veins at the life she was raised in.

“Yep. My grandfather didn’t take too kindly to the situation, either. He fired my father, who was the police chief, and ruined any possibility of a political career for him. My father divorced my mother, my mother’s perfect little Southern Stepford life imploded, and she ended up having to find a job. Needless to say, we were never the same.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.” She looks away from me and reaches for her wine glass, clearly trying to shut the conversation down.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all I really know to say.

“Don’t be. It’s shaped me into who I am, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing. What I’ve learned and what I value above all in people are character and honesty. She was fake, he was fake, they used each other, and he lied. I have no place in my life for any of that—ever.”

Unease rushes under my skin, and a cold sweat breaks out on my back. I should tell her. Now would be the perfect time to clear the air and admit to what we’ve been doing, but I don’t think she’ll respond kindly to it. It doesn’t matter that I’ve told her and shown her I care more than I ever have another woman; she’ll still see our ‘plan’ as betrayal. Just knowing I have the potential to hurt her, I feel like I’ve betrayed myself.

Pushing her feet off my lap, I get up and grab our glasses to refill them. Oblivious to my internal panic, she smiles at me and then follows me into the kitchen. I drag my hand over my face before I squeeze the back of my neck and shake off the guilt.

Three days.

Three days until her stay here is over, and maybe one day we can look back on this and laugh about my stupid plan.