Page 42 of Never Bargain with the Boss
In front of her, on the stove, there’s pasta boiling in one pot, but she’s using the spoon as a microphone, singing into it with passion. “H-O-T-T-O-G-O!” On another burner, a pot of what looks like a good marinara sauce is simmering on low, and there are two plates already set on the island. She’s made us dinner.
It’s sweet. It’s trouble. For both of us. But somehow, I’m smiling at the scene before me.
I can do this. It’s just a dinner. Like all the others we’ve had together.
Except Grace isn’t here. And I need that buffer. Desperately.
“Hi.”
“I wondered when you were gonna quit lurking like a creeper and say something,” Riley teases, not even turning around. I’ve seen the way she watches behind her in the window’s reflection over the sink, like she’s perpetually on high alert, and I’ve wondered what in her life has made her feel that vulnerable, even in the safety of her home. But there’s nothing reflective over the stove. Yet, she still knew I was here.
“Didn’t want to interrupt your acapella karaoke,” I deadpan. She whirls, the brilliant idea sparkling in her eyes and her grin already wide with excitement, and I instantly shut it down. I have to. I can’t risk being upstairs in the media room with her, where it’s dark, private, with a long, comfortable couch where I could easily lay her out to feast on her body. “No karaoke tonight. I need to work.”
She deflates instantly, her lips turning down into a pout that I want to kiss away.
“Sorry, duty calls,” I tell her apologetically, making it sound like I really would rather be singing karaoke with her.
The truth is, I don’t have any work that requires my attention tonight. There are always things to be done, because it’s a never-ending hamster wheel at Blue Lake, but I make it a point to find a work-life balance that doesn’t turn me into a workaholic like my father has always been. I admire what he’s created corporately, but as far as family goes, he was a shitty father to most of my siblings and I would die before I let Grace think that about me.
Tonight, work is simply an easy excuse to get away from Riley and the temptation I’m not sure I’m strong enough to withstand.
“Do you at least have time to eat?” she asks, hope in her voice. “Or should I make you a plate to take to your office?”
I let my eyes lick over her face—her doe eyes rimmed with sharp, black liner, her upturned nose with the cute littlehoop, and her full lips slightly lifted at the corners like she’s anticipating my answer. I should say that I don’t have time and run for the safety and sanctuary of my office. What comes out of my mouth is…
“I have a minute.”
“Awesome!” She makes a spaghetti dinner with me sound like the best part of her day.
She whirls again, pulling the pasta from the stove and carrying it to the sink, where there’s a colander waiting. “Here, let me,” I offer. Instinctively, I take the heavy pot from her, but that puts us so close that our hips bump into each other. “Sorry,” I mutter. She doesn’t move away the way I expect her to. No, she stays right next to me, overseeing what I’m doing like I don’t know how to pour spaghetti into a colander. To be fair, I do splash a bit, but that’s not because I’m inept. It’s because my focus is on her, not the boiling hot water.
As soon as I’m done, she takes the pasta back and dumps it back in the pot, then adds the sauce there. “This,” she says, “is calledmantecareand is the best way to make pasta.”
I watch as she stirs the flexible noodles into the sauce, then adds some olive oil and parmesan cheese. “What’s wrong with the normal way?”
“Plain pasta noodles with sauce slapped on top?” Riley offers back, and I nod. “This way is better,” she declares, sounding as confident as any top Italian chef, and I believe her implicitly, but then she smirks as she leans toward me to reveal, “Before you ask, I learned it from cable cooking shows.”
I can’t help but chuckle because I totally trusted that her culinary experience cooking for kids had led to her creating the best spaghetti in existence. In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me at all because I’m almost unsurprised by all her revelations at this point.
Together, we finish plating the pasta and pour two glasses of red wine and sit at the island. We automatically take our usual seats, which leaves one between us where Grace typically sits. Even empty, the buffer is appreciated.
“What are you doing tonight?” I hear myself ask as we start eating. Damn, she’s right, the pasta’s a lot better this way. But I wish I hadn’t said anything because whatever she answers is only going to be fodder for my fantasies when I’m locked away in my office.
Washing her hair? I could run my hands through it, cupping her face as I feed her my dick.
Laundry? Strip down and let me memorize the parts of your body I haven’t seen.
Watching a movie? Laying her out on the couch comes to mind again. I could eat her out while she watches some pointless rom-com.
Packaging her thrifted items for tomorrow’s trip to the post office? Okay, all I’m getting there are some freaky ideas about things to do with packing tape.
But the point stands. I don’t need anything that’ll get me more riled up than I already am.
“I need to paint my nails,” she answers, distracted as she looks at the pink polish.
An image of her hand, complete with chipped pink polish and a ridiculous number of bracelets, wrapped around my dick, stroking me fast and tight, pops to mind. I shift on the stool, trying to will my dick not to respond. It laughs at me, growing harder, and finally, I have to lay my napkin in my lap in an attempt to hide the damn traitorous appendage. I’d threaten to punish it later, but I think that’s exactly what it's hoping for.
“Sounds fun. What color are you thinking?” I could smack myself on the forehead for asking such a stupid, banal question, but it’s all I could come up with no blood flow in my brain.Hoping for some carb-spiration, I shove a too-big forkful of spaghetti into my mouth.