Tempting Her Best Friend(3)
“Honey, I’m home,” Dillon sang jokingly from the hall.
For now, though, she would not act any differently with him than usual. Would not would not would not. Feeling fairly confident the mantra would sink in and get the message to her brain soon, she pasted a smile on her face just as he entered the kitchen in a pair of worn jeans and a faded gray Pink Floyd concert tee. His sandy-brown hair curled up a little on the ends. He preferred keeping it short, but she liked it when it got a tad overlong like this.
“Hey, Aly-gator, here you go.”
“My hero,” she said, accepting the oblong paper bag holding a baguette of French bread as he confiscated her glass of wine and finished it.
“You lucked out. I got the last fresh loaf at the bakery.”
Dillon picked a few red grapes from the bowl on the island. He popped one in his mouth, then one in hers. The juice of the grape burst on her tongue as the yeasty scent of the warm bread invaded her nose. “Mmm. Thanks for picking it up. A French meal isn’t very French without the French bread. How’s the Karlson project?”
“Miraculously on track, considering what a total pain in the ass he is,” he said. “What’d you make? It smells damn good.”
He started to lift the lid on the pot, but she slapped his hand and pushed him away. “It’s coq au vin, and your hands are to remain off until I say otherwise.”
“Okay, sorry,” he said, holding his palms out in surrender with his famous I’m-not-the-least-bit-sorry-grin. “Then put me to work. What can I do to get this on my plate faster?”
“Sauté these mushrooms and onions in that pan for me. We’ll be ready to eat just in time for last week’s recap.”
Grabbing a long serrated knife, she began slicing the bread into one-inch-thick, diagonal pieces. Dillon refilled her wineglass and returned it to her before grabbing one of the beers she kept for him in the fridge. Within minutes they were working in tandem, chatting and moving around each other seamlessly with an easy comfort.
He sautéed and stirred. She sliced and stacked.
He begged with puppy-dog eyes. She rolled hers, then shoved a piece of bread in his mouth.
He held up a spoonful of mushrooms for her to taste, then kept moving it away every time she went for it until she narrowed her eyes and hit him on the shoulder. Not that that fazed him in the least, as evidenced by his laughter. The deep, warm rumble in his chest was more contagious to her than yawning. She was helpless not to join him.
She gave the thumbs-up and set their places on the living-room coffee table.
He brought the food over and cued up their show.
On the surface, all was right in her world as they proceeded with their Thursday night ritual: dinner and horrible reality TV.
Every week they got together at her place and watched The Bachelor or The Bachelorette, whichever was running at the time. Currently, one lucky lady was on a mission to find her true love in the dozens of men carefully chosen by overpaid producers whose main concern was ratings. That and ensuring the pony they chose for next season came in as runner-up at the final elimination.
It was pathetic. It was despicable. It was tradition.
Close friends and family teased them, but they’d made peace with their guilty pleasure a long time ago.
Tucking into his chicken, he asked, “Who do you think Kelly gets rid of this time?”
“If I had to guess right now, I’d say either Jordie or Don. But it depends on how the hot-tub dates go tonight.”
“Good call.”
Over the next hour they ate, drank, laughed, and gasped at the antics and drama on the show. Alyssa felt a tad light-headed from her current and third glass of wine, but it happened to be doing a fabulous job of slowing down her overactive brain and chasing away her nerves.
As the night had worn on, she’d become even more convinced her plan was perfect. Every shared grin and brush of his thigh against hers made her stomach clench, turning her hope into something more.
Time to give the green light to Operation: Manipulating the Man-Whor— Her subconscious gasped. Alyssa Rose Miller! Where had that come from? That name wasn’t even nice. She gave her wine the stink-eye. Apparently, two glasses had been more than plenty.
She caught his gaze and decided it was now or never. Start with a casual reminder of your trip to Vegas. “So I caught that little scene out front with the brunette earlier.” Shit! Her inebriated brain had gone completely rogue, and now she had to run with it or risk looking insane. “I thought you said she was the one who broke things off.”
“No, it was me. We’d been seeing each other for a few months. I was starting to get antsy.”
Starting to get antsy. It’s what he told her every time he broke things off with a girl and felt bad about it. Kind of like his version of “it wasn’t her, it was me.” She didn’t think he realized he did it, but she didn’t see any reason to point it out either. “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”