When I reached the door, I glanced at my reflection in the window and almost changed my mind. No makeup, hair sticking out all over the place, and flour all over my face. He knocked again. Dammit. The hottest rock star on the planet was about to see me looking like I could turn Medusa to stone.
“Salem?” Chris’s muffled voice called through the thick, wooden door.
Shit. Oh well. Now or never.
I reached for the knob, creaking the door open slowly while I peeked outside. Chris stood on my front stoop with a vase full of gerbera daisies. My favorite! I bit my lip, taking in his sexy sculpted pecs in that tight, thermal shirt, and then I remembered what I looked like.
Chris stood, dumbfounded, holding the vase in front of him and staring at me. I cringed, totally embarrassed.
I hooked a few stray strands of hair behind my ear, which immediately fell right back into my face. “I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, wrinkling my nose. “I didn’t get a chance to change before you got here.”
“Wow,” Chris responded with wide eyes. “You look… you look normal.”
I looked around, confused. “Thanks?” Was that a compliment?
He cleared his throat. “No, I mean… you look amazing. Most of the girls I see are dressed to kill in their five inch stilettos and short, tight dresses, trying way too hard to impress the band, but you… you look…” He gulped and said softly, “like home.”
I peered up at him. His dark eyes watched me as I nervously twisted my apron around my finger. Home? Home meaning… something he could come home to? My knees almost buckled beneath me and my heart raced in my chest. “I… I’ve been making biscuits,” I said a little too brightly. “Breakfast for supper.”
Chris smiled warmly. “I can tell. You have some flour on your nose.” He tapped my nose, chuckling as he added, “And in your hair.” Reaching out, he swiped his thumb across my cheek. “And right there, too.”
The sensation of his fingertips along the side of my face sent a jolt of lightning to my toes. The warmth of his skin on mine spread across my cheek. I closed my eyes for a millisecond and nearly leaned against the touch of his thumb as it stroked my cheek. Oh god. I melted under the blaze of his caress.
“Oh,” he said, jerking his hand away from my face. “These are for you.” He held the vase toward me.
I immediately missed his touch, and instinctively reached up to cup my cheek as if I were trying to trap the tingle on my skin. “Thank you,” I said, taking the flowers from him and inhaling their scent. “Please, come in.” I motioned for him to step inside.
“Thanks.” He slipped out of his jacket as soon as he stepped into the foyer. “Something smells delicious.”
“Oh! I almost forgot!” I rushed into the kitchen and jerked open the oven door. Grabbing an oven mitt from the counter, I yanked the pan off the rack. My third attempt at making biscuits was finally a success. On the hot stone sat one dozen perfectly formed, fluffy, golden brown biscuits just waiting to be doused with gravy and devoured.
I set the pan on the hot pad just as Chris walked into the kitchen. “Wow. You got the scratch-made biscuit thing down to an art,” he noted with admiration.
I laughed, admitting, “It took several tries.”
He smiled back. “It took my grandmother five years before she perfected her biscuits.”
“Well, let’s just see if they taste as good as they look,” I warned, lacking confidence in my baking skills.
Chris walked to the stove, peering at the pots and pans on the burners. “Fried livermush and sausage gravy? You really know the way to my heart, huh?”
I smiled at him. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I haven’t fixed homemade sausage gravy in years. I’m just praying it’s edible.”
Chris grinned at the lumpy gravy. “Anything homemade is better than drive-thru food.” He looked at me and laughed. Not the kind of polite laugh you’d use in awkward social situations, but the belly-aching, horse laugh you’d use when you’re one hundred percent comfortable with the person you’re talking to.
“What’s funny?” I asked, happy of the fact that he’d let his guard down in front of me, but still reeling over the fact that he was standing in my kitchen.
He shook his head. “I just thought of that time in juvie when DeAndre asked Mrs. Collins what we were having for lunch that day, and she’d said, ‘I’m serving everyone’s favorite today… cow patties.’” He imitated sweet old Ruth’s voice to a tee. My heart swelled at the goofy look on his face. I loved that he was so comfortable here. He sighed nostalgically. “The look on DeAndre’s face was priceless!” Then Chris burst out laughing again. It was contagious, and I burst out laughing too. Every time we’d try to stifle our laughter one of us would giggle again and the whole fiasco started over. Finally getting it under control, Chris sputtered, “I guess… I guess where he comes from… ‘cow patties’ have a different meaning!” He chuckled again, and I couldn’t help but grin.