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Nobody had ever really wanted to slow things down with her. Mostly, the guys she’d been with would give up on her if it took too long to unhook her bra. But that was before Holden.
This was new. Exciting.
And she’d be damned if someone said she hadn’t been up for a new challenge.
“Fine. We don’t have sex. What’s this special date? You cook me dinner, and then what?”
“Then anything you want us to do.”
Polo? Rollerblading? Laser tag? In comparison to sex with Holden, everything else sounded lame at best. She’d have to bide her time until she came up with another idea.
“Why do you have to be the one to cook dinner?” She squinted at him.
“Because I know you. And I don’t have a death wish.”
That stung. Especially when she intended to prove him wrong.
“Well, if you want the whole Peaches-and-Herb date night, wouldn’t I be the traditional little homemaker?” She could do that. She could pack his lunch and find his slippers and stoke his pipe or whatever. Maybe she only thought she couldn’t because she’d never really tried.
But if there was a first time for their relationship, there was a first time for everything else, too. A fresh start.
“That’s not really the idea—”
“No, let me finish my indignation here. I can cook. I watch that Barefoot Duchess or whatever like all the time. Plus, I watch that show with the people who have to cook with canned bread and, l
ike, quail sphincters. I can definitely do that.”
“Are you saying you want to cook?”
Her stomach churned, but she knew what she had to do. “Yes.”
“Do you even have food in your house?”
She had to think about that one. It’d been five days since her shopping trip with Myla, but she definitely still had some food. Half a bag of Cheetos. A smattering of canned ham that had been there when she’d moved in. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d opened the fridge, but the point of that thing was to keep stuff from going all gross, right?
“Yeah, totally. I have, like, all the food.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know about this.”
They sat in silence for what felt like forever. Did he seriously not trust her to cook? He’d seen her accomplish a lot of things scarier and more complicated than scrambling an egg.
“Fine. Then I’ll have to prove it to you, fair and square. We’re going to have a Food-Channel challenge. Each of us can use anything in my kitchen to create a refined dinner for the other person. You think you’re so fancy? Make me a better meal than what I prepare for you.”
“And what does the winner get? Consumption?”
“No. If I win, then we have sex tonight. Like, crazy Bruno-Mars-lyrics kind of sex.”
“And in the more likely event of my victory?”
“Well, what do you want?”
The words flew out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. Stupid. Now he could ask for anything. Anything at all. She might as well have offered herself up as a satanic sacrifice, or worse, agreed to go back to Maryland for Sunday breakfast with his mother.
She stared him down, intent on his answer. But seriously, what could he want, anyway? Unlimited funds at Nine West, maybe, but other than that, she had no idea what more a person could need. He had access to the château d’Avery. There were few privileges in life better than that.
“Well, don’t just sit there,” she urged.
“I know what I want. You’re going to hate it, though,” he said.
