Can't Stand the Heat (11 page)

“You'll what?” he challenged, lifting his chin. He snickered. “Call the cops? Have me thrown in jail?”

She grinned. “No, I'll just let it slip to the biggest gossips in Chesterton that little problem that you have.” She glanced down at his crotch. “You know . . . that limp dick you've got . . . that
little itty bitty
problem you have keeping it up,” she said, holding thumb and forefinger together to emphasize just how small he was.

James's smile disappeared. His face instantly flushed bright red.

“Not all men can take a little blue pill. I heard you had a bad allergic reaction to it. Kind of put a damper on your sex life, huh? And Lauren said the times you
did
manage to get it up, you guys were usually done in five minutes flat.” She laughed. “Way to show a lady a good time, James!”

“You cunt,” he muttered between clenched teeth. He looked beyond furious. “You fucking bitch. I should—”

“I'll
also
share other choice details about you that Lauren told me, details I'm sure you'd be pretty embarrassed for everyone else in town to hear.”

A vein bulged along his temple.

“That's right, James. I've got a few cards of my own. So stay away from me. Stay the hell away from my sister. Leave me and my goddamn family alone. OK?”

Stephanie could tell by the expression on his face that if they weren't in a busy restaurant, if they were alone, he would hurt her. He'd probably come close to killing her. But James would never show his rage in public. He was all about the image. That's why she knew her threat to share his embarrassing little secrets would keep him in check.

“You have a nice night now,” she said airily.

She then walked around him and back toward her table. She didn't look back.

Hank gazed at her. He had probably been watching the whole conversation unfold.

She scooted onto the leather seat beside him.

“Now, where were we?” she whispered with a smile, linking her arm through his and leaning toward him.

He didn't return her smile, but remained tight-lipped instead. “Who was that?”

“No one. He's just . . . just an acquaintance.” She lightly kissed Hank's lips. “Don't worry about it, baby. Now back to that list of yours. Instead of doing everything on it, would you settle for maybe ten line items?”

She watched in dismay as he tugged his arm out of her grasp.

“OK, how about fifteen?”

“I saw him talking to you at the Baylors the other day, too,” Hank said, bringing the topic back to James. “Is he an ex or something?”

She sighed and finished the rest of the wine that was left in her glass. “No, my sister's ex . . . and an annoying one at that.” She placed her hand on his leg and rubbed the inside of his thigh. “But that doesn't mean he has to ruin
our
fun, does it?”

Hank removed her hand and loudly cleared his throat. “I think we should . . . we should cut our date short tonight.”

“But why?
Because of James?
I told you that he's my sister's ex. Not mine! Believe me! He won't bother—”

“No. No, I . . . I got a call while you were in the ladies' room. Something's . . . come up. I need to take care of it.”

“Something's come up? You mean something's wrong? Do you need to—”

“Nothing's wrong. It's nothing serious. I should just take care of it, which is why I have to leave earlier than I planned.”

“Oh,” she said, now deflated.

Hank waved down their waiter who passed their table. “Can we have the check, please?”

Stephanie slumped back against the booth's cushion and sighed. James had obviously scared Hank off. So now she was not only short nine thousand dollars, but she had also lost the interest of sexy Deacon Montgomery.

Damn,
she thought. And she already had her leather bondage outfit planned out.

Hank pulled in front of her house less than half an hour later, making amazing time on the Beltway and Dulles toll roads. He had to break the speed limit and zip between cars to get back to her place so fast. He claimed that whatever he had to get to wasn't an emergency, but he certainly wasn't acting like it.

She hoped, as he walked her to the door, that maybe she could salvage the date with a good-bye kiss—something to remind him of the hot and steamy potential they had shown earlier. The right kiss could make him come back for more. Maybe they could try for another date next week.

When they mounted the last step on her concrete walkway, she turned to him and smiled.

“Well . . .” she said.

“Well . . .” he echoed.

She walked toward him and toyed with one of his suit lapels. “I had a nice time tonight. I'm sorry you have to leave so early.” She gave an exaggerated pout.

“I am, too, but . . . duty calls.”

She slowly linked her arms around his neck and leaned toward him, preparing to plant on his lips the sultriest, wettest kiss she could muster. But suddenly he darted his mouth in the other direction, avoiding her lips. He kissed her cheek with a light, almost brotherly peck. She blinked in surprise.

“Gotta go,” he said, before abruptly tugging her arms from around him, turning on his heel, and racing back to his car.

She stood in front of her door dumbfounded as she watched him pull off less than a minute later.

“Damn it,” she muttered, stomping her foot in frustration.

“S
hould I . . . should I start plating the entrées?” Lauren asked. She turned from the stove, wiped her hands on a dishcloth, and faced her first new client, the ex-Dallas Cowboy/ millionaire Cris Weaver.

He had been standing about ten feet behind her for the past hour and a half, observing her while she cooked. He said he wanted it to be part of the evening: Lauren doing her kitchen voodoo while everyone else at the party watched her work, like they were watching a show.

Whatever,
she had thought flippantly on the phone as he made his request.
You're the one writing the check, sweetheart. Short of me wearing a thong bikini while I'm cooking, I'm game for just about anything at this point.

Her casual attitude disappeared, though, when she realized
he
would be staring at her the whole time she cooked. Knowing his dark eyes were on her had been unnerving, but miraculously she had managed to not burn herself or set his kitchen on fire.

“Or I can hold off serving the entrées for a bit . . . until your guests arrive. The meat shouldn't dry out if you want to wait.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It's up to you.”

Cris propped his elbow against the kitchen island's granite countertop, shifted on his leather stool, and took a sip of red wine. “No, you can go ahead if it's done. I have no idea when they'll get here. I might as well start without them.” He grinned. “The food smells too good not to eat.”

He certainly was in good spirits for a man who was throwing a party and not one guest had shown up.

If it was me, I'd be pissed,
Lauren thought as she glanced at the two porcelain platters covered with appetizers. Most of them—dates wrapped in applewood bacon and stuffed with blue cheese, deviled eggs filled with crabmeat ravigote, and white pork boudin balls—still sat untouched. It looked like the price of his dinner was quickly escalating from $875 a plate to $3,500 a plate with every minute that guests didn't arrive. She felt bad for the guy.

Lauren pursed her lips. “All right. Well, I guess you can go ahead and sit at your dinner table. I'll bring the food to you in about two minutes.”

“You're serving me, too?”

Lauren opened his oven to reveal a bubbling pan filled with pork chops. The room suddenly filled with the food's intoxicating aroma. “Sure, why not? You're paying a lot of money for this.” She used both ends of the dish towel to tug the pan out of the oven without burning her hands. She set it on the stove top. “I may as well give you the full service, right?”

“
Really?
And what does the ‘full service' include exactly?” At those words, the hairs started to prick on the back of her neck. A delicious thrill went down her spine.

She looked over her shoulder at him. She could have sworn he was flirting again. She thought she heard laughter in his voice, but she pushed that thought aside when she saw that he was gazing at her innocently.

Stop projecting, Lauren
.
He's not attracted to you.

“Plating, serving, wine refill, and cleanup,” she said flatly in response. “At least, that's what I would call full service.”

“I see. Well, I guess I'll wait for my full service in the dining room.”

He stood from his stool, taking his glass of red wine with him. Lauren watched as he walked out of the kitchen and rounded a corner.

This is really strange,
she thought as she placed a dinner plate on the countertop beside the oven.

Cris must be the mellowest guy in the world. He didn't seem at all phased at the idea of eating a dinner for a housewarming party by himself. She hadn't even seen him check his cell phone or voice mail to see if people had called to say they would be late.

I guess he's used to it,
she thought with a shrug as she grabbed some tongs and began to arrange pork chops on the plate.
If I were him, though, I'd get a new set of friends.

Minutes later, Lauren carried an entrée into Cris's dining room. It was a massive space, but he had turned down the overhead lights and lit candles in candelabras at both ends of the table, filling the dining room with a soft orange glow that made it feel smaller, more intimate. With the white tablecloth, candles, and crystal stemware, she would even venture to call the space romantic, but Cris looked rather lonely sitting at the head of the table all by himself.

“Here's your dinner.” She placed the plate in front of him. She glanced at his now-empty wineglass. “Would you like more wine?”

He smiled. “Yes, please.”

Lauren leaned forward and reached for a bottle of merlot. She slowly poured the wine into his glass, feeling his gaze on her as she did it. He was making her nervous again. Her hands began to tremble and the palms grew moist. The neck of the bottle bobbed in her shaking hands, spilling wine over the side of the glass and onto the tablecloth.

Her cheeks flushed with heat. “God, I'm so sorry.”

“It's OK. It'll wash out. That's what bleach was invented for.”

She looked around the empty table. “I'm really sorry about your guests. I hope they're all OK.”

“They're just missing out on an incredible dinner.” After taking a sip from his glass, Cris leaned down to smell his dish. He shook open a napkin and tossed it over his lap.

“Mmm, smells good.” He licked his lips. “What did you say this was again?”

“Well, these are herb-brined pork chops.” She proudly pointed down at the dish. “It's served with a sweet pea and corn succotash and baked fingerling potato compote.”

“That sounds like a mouthful.”

“And hopefully it tastes like a mouthful.” She smiled before turning to walk out of the dining room. “Please, enjoy,” she said over her shoulder.

“Uh, Lauren?”

She stopped halfway down the dining room table and turned back around to face him. “Yes?”

“I really don't think my other guests are going to make it here tonight. There's a lot of good food that's going to be left over from this and I can't eat all of it by myself. I'd hate for this to go to waste. Would you like to join me?”

He looked up at her with that kind face and pleading eyes and she knew it would be nearly impossible to say no to him.

She hesitated while furrowing her brows. “Are . . . are you sure?”

His smile widened. “Of course, I'm sure. Make yourself a plate and pull up a chair.” To illustrate his point, he pulled out the chair closest to him and patted the upholstered cushion. “You're my guest tonight.”

 

Lauren laughed until tears almost ran down her cheeks as she finished the last of the raspberry chocolate mousse in her soufflé cup.

She hadn't expected to find herself laughing when they started eating dinner. Their meal began awkwardly, with her so nervous she could barely chew her food. But by the time they started eating dessert, she was completely at ease.

She sat next to Cris with one leg tucked underneath her bottom. The buttons of her chef jacket were open, revealing the white tank top she wore underneath.

“So Mark's screaming at the top of his lungs and he's standing on top of the bench and damn near climbing on top of the lockers trying to get away from this gerbil, right,” Cris said, continuing his story. “I'm standing there with my mouth open because I had no idea he was going to lose it like that. I mean, it's some fan's pet gerbil. It wasn't like it was a cougar or a bear or somethin'.”

Lauren held her stomach and continued to laugh as she shook her head. “There is no way he was
that
scared!”

“I swear that's exactly what he did.” Cris was laughing himself. “The only way we could get him down was to take the gerbil out of the locker room. And even then it took him a good twenty minutes to calm down. I mean, he's a big dude: six foot five, three hundred twenty pounds. He has half of the quarterbacks in the NFL shaking in their shoes when they see him comin' for them on the field, but put a gerbil in front of him and he's not so big and bad anymore.” Cris shook his head. “We never let him live that one down. He kept finding stuffed toy gerbils in his locker for the next two seasons.”

Lauren giggled. Her laughter began to slowly taper off as Cris resumed eating his mousse.

“This is some good stuff,” he said with a mouthful of dessert as he pointed down at his cup with his spoon.

“Glad you like it.” She tilted her head. “Cris, can I ask you something?”

He looked up from his cup and nodded. “Of course.”

“Is there any reason why you spell Cris without an ‘h'?”

He gave a knowing smile, as if he had heard this question before.

“I mean, if you don't mind me asking. I know as a people we can get pretty creative with our name spellings. I was just wondering about yours.”

“Well, Cris is short for Crisanto. A lot of guys have that name back in the Philippines where my mom's from. I just shortened it.”

“Why?”

“Never liked it much,” he said with a casual shrug. “Besides, when you're growing up in a neighborhood with guys named Tyrone and Hakeem, Crisanto stands out for all the wrong reasons. You know? I thought Cris sounded better . . . cooler.”

“Crisanto,” she repeated softly, letting the word slide off her tongue. She then gave a thoughtful nod. “I think it's nice. I like it. It sounds very exotic.”

“It just sounds better when
you
say it.”

Their eyes met again and Lauren felt the temperature rise in the echoing dining room. A thought suddenly popped into her head that he looked like he was going to kiss her and she badly wanted him to do it. But she pushed the thought aside as more nonsense. Lauren broke their mutual gaze and slowly rose from her dining room chair.

“I should get started on the cleanup. It's getting late.” He immediately stood from his chair, too, and dropped his dinner napkin on the table. “Lauren, you don't have to worry about that. I can—”

“No, no,” she argued, gathering plates, soufflé cups, and cutlery. “Remember, it's full service. It's the least I can do.” He followed her as she walked out of the dining room, laden with dirty dishes. “You paid me thirty-five hundred dollars and I ended up eating some of the food I cooked. At this point, I probably owe
you
money.”

At that, an expression she was sure she was mistaking for guilt momentarily crossed his face. “Look, Lauren, I—”

“I insist, Cris.” They stepped into the kitchen. She put the plates, forks, knives, and spoons in his sink. “It's not that big of a deal. I can have this place cleaned up in less than an hour. You'll see. It'll be like I wasn't even here.” She then reached for one of the platters of now-cold appetizers, preparing to dump the remaining food into a nearby trash bin.

“Lauren.” He suddenly grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

Her eyes leaped to his face in surprise. His touch sent chills through her. She swallowed loudly.

“Yes, Cris,” she squeaked.

“I . . . have a . . . confession to make.”

Uh-oh,
she thought.
This doesn't sound good.

“I probably shouldn't tell you this. I'm probably blowing it now, but it's my rule not to play games and tonight, I broke it.”

He let go of her wrist.

“No one . . .” He paused. “No one came tonight because I . . . I didn't invite anyone.”

“You didn't invite anyone?
But . . . but I thought you said you were throwing a party.” She looked around her with confusion. “Then what was all the food for?”

He looked away from her. The expression of guilt returned to his face. “Well, when I tried to ask you out to dinner, you started to say no, so I had to come up with something quick that could still get you here but something that wasn't a
date
-date. You know?”

“A
date
-date?”

“I
knew
we would enjoy dinner together. When I met you, there was just somethin' about you. I figured I just came on too strong and had scared you off, but I could make up for it . . . tonight. You'd see what I was really like.”

“So to get me here . . . you lied to me?”

“Well, I wouldn't call it a lie. It was more like—”

“That's what
I
would call it,” she insisted, “and I think any other woman would probably do the same.”

“So I made a bad call?” He sighed and threw up his hands. “Look, just know that I had the best of intentions, here. I wasn't trying to do anything underhanded. I just wanted to . . . get to know you better. That's all.”

Lauren pursed her lips again. She wasn't sure how she felt about this revelation. She was angry that he had lied to her and carried out this ridiculous charade the entire evening. But the other part of her was, in some strange way, very flattered. This guy had gone above and beyond to get her out on a date: creating a fictitious dinner party and hiring her as a caterer to do it. Plus, she
had
enjoyed having dinner with him. She had had a ball! Cris was funny and charismatic. Not to mention, incredibly easy on the eyes. He made her second-guess her decision to hold off dating anyone for a while.

“So are you going to walk out of here and never speak to me again?”

The room fell into silence. “No, I guess not,” she finally uttered.

He instantly smiled.

“I understand why you did it. Sort of.”