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His stomach clenched at the memories.
Tired o
f being in the living room by himself, he followed his nose to where he’d find Emily. The apartment wasn’t very big, so it was easy to find where she stood at a stove.
She still wore her apron, but that was where her resemblance to a fifties housewife ended.
Her hair was pulled up high on her head with a few loose tendrils that hung past her shoulders. Her makeup was subtle but perfectly accented her big green eyes, high cheekbones and pouty, all-too-kissable pale pink lips. Beneath the apron was a pair of jeans that showed off long, slender legs and a T-shirt that matched her eyes. All she needed was a television crew filming her and she’d be a cooking show megastar.
He’d certainly tune in week after week to see what new concoction she’d dreamed up.
“It’s almost done,” she told him, picking up a glass of wine and dumping its contents over a dish on the stove top. “I was just finishing.”
“You didn’t have to go to any trouble. I really wouldn’t have minded takeout.”
“I cooked for me, not you.”
He glanced around the small but efficient room. A vase with a few colorful flowers sat in the middle of a table. Two expensive-looking plates with ringed napkins in the center and perfectly laid out silverware to the sides sat opposite each other. He’d have bet money she couldn’t properly set a table back when they’d been married. Had she looked up how to on the internet or was this another newly acquired skill?
“What are we having?” he asked, eyeing what she was doing. “Liver, broccoli, asparagus and peas?”
“You always were a good guesser.” Her eyes twinkled with merriment.
“That’s a lot of greens.”
“You’re a doctor,” she reminded him with a sugary sweet fake smile. “I figured you liked eating healthy. Greens are good for you. If you’ll have a seat—” she gestured to the round table that sat four “—I’ll serve dinner.”
Something about the idea of sitting at her table with her waiting on him struck him as wrong. “I don’t want you to serve me, Emily.”
“It’s no problem. You’re my guest.”
Reluctantly, he sat down in the indicated chair and watched as she picked up his plate and piled on large portions of each dish, put a sprig of green to the side of the meat and set it before him.
She then prepared the second plate, a much less full one, and put it on the table opposite where he sat. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I should have brought us a bottle of wine.” He hadn’t brought anything. No wine. No flowers. No anything. He hadn’t been thinking. Not about anything but the person’s company he wanted. Emily’s.
“It’s just as well you didn’t,” she assured him. “I have no desire to drink something that lowers my inhibitions and makes me not think as clearly.”
“Especially around me?”
“Lowering my inhibitions was never something you had a problem with.”
“You said no that first night and quite a few after.”
“Barely.” She laughed, a low sound that was more self-derision than humor.
He regarded her for long moments. She didn’t look at him but stared at her plate. Her cheekbones had the slightest bit of blush on them, accenting their height and the beauty of her face. When her gaze lifted to his, the intense color of her green eyes beneath darkly fringed lashes stole his breath.
“You want me to tell you I’m sorry I wanted you so much?”
“I don’t want you to tell me anything.” Her voice was too calm. “I just want you to eat your food.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed, wondering at the ache that had settled deep into his gut when he’d yet to even take a bite of her specially prepared meal. “Let’s talk about work, then. What’s your favorite thing about Children’s?”
“The kids.” She forked a piece of meat, liver no doubt, and popped it into her mouth. “Mmm, that’s good.”
Lucas would never believe that anyone could make eating liver look sexy. Emily had. Who knew it was even possible?
