Mad Valentine: A Bad Boy Romance (Mad Valentine Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

XVIII. Dinner

Thursday came faster than expected. In creative writing on Thursday afternoon, Victor pestered me to know what I was making for dinner but I didn’t divulge. It was mostly because I didn’t know what I was going to make yet. I successfully gave him the brushoff and told him to be at my apartment at 7:30.

I met Maggie at the greasy spoon for coffee before the next class and asked her for dinner ideas.

“You know, something easy but super tasty. Any ideas?”

Maggie leveled me with a skeptical look. “Since when are you interested in cooking?”

“I don’t know, Mags. I’m a twenty-something woman. I want to be able to cook like an adult.”

“Yes, you
should
know how to cook something besides boxed mac and cheese,” she replied, then added, “but
no
, that is not why you’re interested in recipes from me. You’re cooking for someone, and you’re not telling me. I can smell it. What the hell, El? Why are you holding out on me?”

How does she do that?!

I conceded grudgingly. “Okay, fine. Yes, I am cooking for someone.”

“Who? Warren?”

“Ew, no! Of course not.”

“Oh, yeah, silly me. You can have sex with him but can’t have a normal evening with him,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So who is it then?”

Ugh. Here’s the kicker. Brace yourself.

“Victor.”

Maggie’s eyes got so big I thought they were going to pop out of her skull.

“El! You told me you wouldn’t get too close to him. What the hell? You promised me.”

“Maggie, I thought you were fine with him after you got to know him at Lucky 13. We had a great time, remember? He was so gentlemanly.”

“That doesn’t erase what he’s done, El. Come on, he’s a psycho killer!”

“No,
you
come on. He’s
not
a psycho killer. He just got riled up at someone ages ago, and probably for good reason. You’re blowing it out of proportion.” I took a deep breath. “Maggie, I know you’re saying this out of love, but I want you to see things my way on this. I’m getting to know Victor. I want to be his friend and I would really like it if you’d just let me.”

“His ‘friend’ my ass,” she threw back. “You’re infatuated with this guy! He’s hot, for sure, but he’s dangerous, Ellen. He’s not good for you.”

“Okay, first of all, we really are just friends. There’s nothing else between us.” Maggie narrowed her eyes at me, but I barreled on. “And second, I really, truly feel that under all his tattoos and big black cars and whatever he did in the past, Victor is a good person. A
really
good person.”

Maggie crossed her arms and stewed for a minute. “You really think so?” she finally said.

In my mind, I sighed with relief. She was giving me some latitude. Despite how difficult she could be, I really did love Maggie. She always looked out for me, but she trusted me when I asked her to.

“Yes,” I said, reaching across the table for her hands. “I really do. And he’s coming to my place for dinner tonight.”

Maggie uncrossed her arms and took my hands. “Okay, fine. But please be careful, El.” She gave me a meaningful look, and with a little sigh, she continued. “So what you want to do is cook some fettuccine with lemon and capers, with a filet of broiled salmon on top. Have a salad and a nice cheese on hand. I assume he’s bringing some wine?”

I had no idea, but I nodded, hanging on to her every word.

“Thought so. ‘Friends’ my ass…” Maggie grumbled. But then she proceeded to give me instructions, and I felt a slightly silly, very happy grin growing on my face.

Later that night, the salmon was giving off a delicious smell from the oven, the salad was chilling in the fridge, the cheese was sweating on a plate, and I was just about to add pasta to boiling water when my buzzer sounded.

I ran to the buzzer and pressed the button for a few seconds to unlock the main entrance. I took one last glance around my apartment—it still smelled like boiled potatoes under the salmon aroma, but at least everything was tidy and comfy. I also gave myself a once-over in the mirror by the door. It was a chilly night, but I had the heater on full-blast, and I wore a gauzy, sea green sweater over a spaghetti-strap tank top and skinny jeans. I had only applied light makeup, but that was fine for an evening with “just a friend.” My cheeks were rosy from the cooking, and with my hair pulled back into a ponytail, I didn’t look like I was trying too hard.

We are just friends. Only friends. No sexy stuff, no funny business. We’re just having a nice dinner between friends.

For extra measure, I closed my eyes and recalled my promise to Maggie that I would be careful around Victor. Thus fortified, I opened the door with a breezy smile when the knock came.

Victor stood there, ready to break a heart with a single glance. He wore a black t-shirt, grey jeans, boots, and his old leather jacket. In his hand was a bottle of whiskey. “Hey, there,” he said.

Okay…Whiskey is a little stronger than wine, but we’ll make it work.

“Hi! Come in,” I said, beckoning him in. “Welcome to my hovel.”

Victor stepped in and took a look around the studio. I closed the door behind him and hurried back to the boiling water to put the fettuccine in.

“So this is your place,” he said with a grin. He took a moment to take in the white canvas couch with the bright, mismatched pillows, the blue curtains I had sewed by hand, and the queen-sized bed in an alcove I had made into a bedroom. “Nice digs. Very you.”

“Yeah?” I turned to him. “How so?”

“Well,” he said, crossing the tiny living room in just a few long strides, “it’s fucking adorable.” He put the whiskey on the kitchen counter and gave me the crooked half-smile that made my heart skip a beat.

“Oh.” I felt my face warming, but he refocused his attention to the oven.

“Is that salmon?” he asked.

“Yes!” I said, grateful to change the topic. “We’re having it over fettuccine with a lemon and caper sauce, and we’ve got a salad and some cheese as well. Feel free to help yourself to the cheese. I’ve cut up some crusty bread there.” I gestured to the plate of cheese and the basket of baguette next to it.

“Well, well! I’m impressed,” he said. “But first thing’s first.” He opened the freezer and took out an ice tray. “Where are your tumblers?”

“Um, I don’t have anything matching,” I said, slightly embarrassed, “but you can find some glasses in that cupboard there.”

Victor took out two glasses—not matching—and put several ice cubes into them. He opened the bottle of whiskey but paused before pouring. “On the rocks okay?”

I nodded, trying to quash the excitement rising in my chest.
Whiskey on the rocks in a room alone with Victor Valentine. This evening is going to be a test of my will power.

Victor poured the whiskey, picked up the glasses, and handed one to me.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass to mine.

“Cheers.” I took a sip of the whiskey. It was smoky and cold, slipping down my throat and igniting a fire in my belly.

“Damn, that’s good,” I said.

“That’s my girl.” Again with the half-smile.

Okay, fucking stop that already.

“All right, so we’re good to go on the pasta, the salmon’s coming out in a minute, and we’ve got drinks in hand,” I said, taking charge before he could liquor me up and render me completely useless with his sexiness. “Can you grab some plates and put the salad and other stuff on the table? I’ll get the rest of it ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and rummaged around the kitchen for plates while I pulled out the salmon and drained the pasta. He put two plates next to the stove for me. I plated the pasta, sauce, and salmon. They looked and smelled amazing.

Thank you, Maggie Winthrop, I will love you forever.

“Salad plates?” Victor asked. I pointed to a cupboard and he grabbed the right things, arranging everything on my tiny dining table in the living room. We worked and walked around each other in the kitchen as if we were performing a choreographed dance. Everything was so natural, so easy. He anticipated my needs and was there to pick up plates and rinse off baking sheets just when I needed him to. It felt like we’d been doing this forever.

At one point, I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and surveyed the situation. All the dirty cooking utensils were in the sink, and the tiny table was set with salad, cheese, bread, and two steaming plates of pasta.

“Wow, that came together fast,” I said. Victor just smiled at me and handed me my glass of whiskey.

We sat down at the table—Victor’s long legs almost didn’t fit under the small space. We laughed as he tried to fold himself up and his knee knocked against a table leg.

“Sorry, it’s a tight squeeze,” I said.

“No, it’s perfect.” Half-smile.

Damn it! Quit smiling at me like that! I’m lightheaded enough from this whiskey.

We ate, chatted, and drank a second glass of whiskey. Victor said everything was amazing and even asked for a second helping of pasta. After the meal, he insisted on washing the dishes.

“That’s how we always did it at my house. Whoever cooks doesn’t clean, whoever cleans doesn’t cook.” He paused for a minute with soapy hands at the sink. “Man, my mom was a good cook.”

“Oh, yeah? What were her best dishes?”

“Everything she made was delicious. Pot roast, pork chops, mashed potatoes…But her salmon never tasted as good as yours,” he said, grinning at me over his shoulder.

“No way!” I said, smacking him on the back. “Don’t lie.”

With the dishes and a third glass of whiskey finished, we took the bottle and moved to the couch. I put my feet up on the coffee table and settled back. My face felt warm and I knew I was buzzed. But I was having such a nice time.

“So,” said Victor. “How do you think this ‘friends’ thing is working out for us?”

I almost choked on the whiskey I was sipping. “Fine. Why?”

“Well. Don’t you find it a little hard?”

“Nope,” I said, looking away.

“I know
I’m
having a hard time,” he said. I looked at him and him gave me a wicked grin. “But I think we’re doing great. We haven’t groped each other in two whole days.”

I had to laugh at this. “Yeah, really great,” I said. “Lots of self-control. We’re being very mature.”

“Very mature,” he repeated. He bit his bottom lip and we caught each other’s eyes, a guilty look on both our faces. We burst out laughing. I wanted to reach over then and take his face into my hands. I wanted to straddle him on this couch and press my lips to his, to grind against his lap, to press my body against his, to feel my nipples graze against his chest. But instead, I downed my fourth glass of whiskey, thinking,
Fuck, this friends thing is hard.
I reached for the bottle again, but Victor stopped me.

“Whoa. Easy there, cowgirl,” he said, taking the bottle from my hand and putting it back on the table. “You’ve already had four and that’s a lot for just a friendly night in.”

“Oh, please!” I sputtered, a little offended. “If you can’t trust me to handle my liquor, you shouldn’t have brought a bottle of Wild Turkey! And news flash: wine or beer is what people bring to a ‘friendly night in.’”

Victor chuckled and held up his hands. “You’re right. Sorry.” He reached for the whiskey bottle. “Fuck it. Where’s your glass?”

I grabbed it from the floor where I had put it and held it out. He poured the amber liquid into our glasses and we clinked them together again.

“Here’s to actual friends,” he said.

“Yes, to actual friends,” I repeated.

We both took a swig, and as we lowered our glasses, we both let out a little sigh. The air between us was pregnant with longing. I could almost reach out and touch our unfulfilled desire.

“Actually, it’s probably time for me to go,” he said, rising. “Dinner was amazing, El. Thanks so much—”

“No, wait!” I stood up in alarm. “You can’t go now. I’m beyond buzzed and I know you must be too. I won’t let you drive drunk. You have to stay here.”

Victor frowned. “I don’t know about that. Maybe we can just wait it out. I’ll drink some water to sober up.”

I went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water.

“It’s really okay, Victor,” I said as he gulped the water. “You don’t have to try to be chivalrous. We just established that we’re
actual
friends. As an
actual
friend, I want you to stay the night. We’ll be fine; just be safe and stay here.”

Victor looked at me and seemed to give in. “All right. If you have a spare blanket, I’ll take the couch.”

“Great.”

I grabbed a spare blanket and an extra pillow from my bed. I struggled with the overpowering urge to invite him to sleep in my bed, but I stayed strong. More than anything, I wanted our relationship to mean something. I didn’t want it to devolve into empty sex. I had had enough of that in my life. So, gritting my teeth, I helped him make up his bed. When we were done, I stood a good distance away as he stretched himself out on the couch, crossing his hands beneath his head.