A Dash of Romance Page 3

  “Honey, I’m home.”

  He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. That was something we hadn’t practiced, and it caught me off guard. My breath hitched as I caught a whiff of his scent—some vaguely familiar aftershave and a faint hint of lemon. I backed away, flustered, and led him into the house. I heard him chuckle softly behind me.

  “We’ll go to the bedroom so you can put down your stuff,” I said, guiding him upstairs.

  My bedroom was a decent size—queen bed with two

  nightstands, a long dresser, and a comfy reading chair in the corner. Usually it was covered in clothing but I’d done a thorough cleaning.

  “So, um, this is it. I cleared out a drawer for you.” I opened the empty drawer. “And, uh, I have a mattress under the bed, fully made up. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “I’ll take the floor,” he mumbled.

  “No, really, I don’t want to put you out further.”

  He dropped his bag on the bed and spoke while he unpacked.

  “Whatever.”

  Great. So much for chivalry. But then again, look who I was dealing with.

  After he put away his clothes and deposited a few things in the bathroom, he made a tour of the house, opening all the drawers and closets, familiarizing himself with the surroundings. I followed him, nervously.

  “It’s going to be fine, Em, I promise.”

  “Em?”

  “Yeah. That’s my nickname for you.”

  “No one calls me Em.”

  “Well, now I do.”

  “I don’t like Em. I’m not an Em. Mags is fine. Trust me.”

  He shook his head.

  “Nope. Em.”

  I rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth. Six nights. I could do this for six nights. Especially if it meant my parents would finally leave me alone.

  We made a quick lunch together in the kitchen so he would know where everything was when my parents arrived. He figured it would be odd if the chef wasn’t cooking at home, and it would certainly raise eyebrows if he started asking where the pots and spatulas were.

  He watched me chop a carrot for a while, then moved in and took the knife from my hand.

  “Let me show you,” he said.

  “I don’t need lessons, thank you very much.”

  “Everyone should know how to use a knife. Even a writer.”

  He positioned himself behind me and took my hands in his. Together we held the knife, fist on the handle, thumb on the blade, as he taught me how to properly slice the carrot. He was very close, and I found it difficult to breathe. I extricated myself from the situation and went to get a jug of water from the fridge. He just watched me, amused.

  “What’s the matter, Em? Thought physical contact did nothing for you?” he laughed.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Liam

  I don’t know why I enjoyed making her squirm so much. I wasn’t intentionally teasing her, the situations just kept presenting themselves. In my defense, she was a very easy target.

  We ate together, a salad prepared using whatever leftover ingredients she had in the fridge. She was amazed at the results.

  “I would’ve thrown half this stuff away,” she said between bites.

  “Sacrilege,” I said, pushing another forkful into my mouth.

  To test the waters, I reached over and tousled her hair. She smiled and blushed, but didn’t stiffen. More progress.

  We had a little time until her parents were due to arrive, and she was clearly nervous, so I suggested we watch Netflix to get her mind off things. We sat down to choose something and had our first argument.

  Turns out she likes coming-of-age shit and has no interest in Game of Thrones or Dexter. I didn’t see why I should have to compromise, given the favour I was doing her, but given how anxious she was, I wisely decided this wasn’t the time to argue. She put on some sappy crap and I pulled out my phone.

  “Really?” she said. “That’s kind of rude.”

  I rolled my eyes and tucked my phone away, giving my full attention to the teenage girl suffering from cancer and the handsome boy who takes her away to meet her idol. Who turned out to be a real shmuck, in my opinion. The idol, not the handsome boy. He was kind of cool.

  Before I knew what was happening, the movie took an unexpected turn and when the doorbell rang, I was actually disappointed not to see how it ended. Maggie jumped up off the couch and smoothed down her shirt.

  “You look fine,” I said, rising to join her.

  She put out her hand, indicating I should stay put, and went to get the door. From my place in the living room, I could hear the loud greetings and passive-aggressive comments about Maggie’s hair and weight. I clenched my fists and took a deep breath. I did not like what I was hearing. I was suddenly glad I was there to help her out, no matter who she was.

  The voices got louder as they approached, and my first thought when the three of them walked into the room was how much she looked like her parents. Had Justin been adopted? Neither parent had Maggie’s red hair, but they all had the same look to them. In place of Maggie’s lightly-freckled skin, they both had clear complexions, but her father had the same chin, and she and her mother possessed identical sculpted cheekbones and shared those bright green eyes.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Liam, my boyfriend.”

  I stepped forward and put out my hand to greet them. They each shook in turn, neither of them bothering to hide their surprise at my appearance.

  “Liam, it’s wonderful to meet you. Maggie tells us you’re a chef?” her mother said, a note of disbelief in her voice.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Grant. At Cagney’s. I made reservations for the four of you tomorrow night. Justin will be driving in to join you.”

  Maggie’s father’s face lit up at the mention of his son’s name.

  “That’s great news,” he said. “I haven’t seen the boy since last Christmas. I wanted to stop there first, but Sophia insisted we come see Maggie first.”

  Mrs. Grant elbowed her husband in the side and he shut up, throwing me a knowing glance. I stifled a laugh and turned to Maggie, who was just standing there, dumbstruck.

  “Em, why don’t you give your folks a tour of the house? I’ll put some coffee on,” I offered.

  She looked over at me, then at her parents, and then seeming to remember what was going on, she smiled and took her mother’s hand.

  “Come. I’ll show you the guest room.”

  *

  We spent the afternoon catching up with Maggie’s parents. Being Monday, the restaurant was closed and I had a day off. They took their time looking through the cottage, checking her pantries and shit. If it had been my folks, I’d have gone apeshit at a certain point, but Maggie took it all in stride. I guess it was what she knew.

  They had a bunch of questions for me, and I did my best to answer as honestly as I could. We’d obviously built a backstory that we’d both memorized, so those questions came easy. But at a certain point, Mr. Grant turned to me and said, “So what is it exactly you see in my daughter?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, certain I’d misheard him.

  “Well, you’re from two very different backgrounds and to be honest, I can’t even imagine how you met,” he said.

  “It’s like we told you, Dad. We were set up,” Maggie interjected.

  “Oh, yeah. Right. Well, anyway, I’m still curious.”

  I glanced over at Maggie and saw her panicked expression. Ms. Organized was freaking out that we didn’t have a plan in place for this line of questioning.

  “Well, for starters, she’s super organized. Likes everything in its place,” I started. Maggie glared at me, but I continued. “She’s got it together. That’s good. And it’s funny how worried she gets when things don’t go according to plan.”

  “That’s why you fell in love with her?” Mrs. Grant asked, dubious.

  “Well, she’s pretty cute. Look at those freckles. They kill me. And s
he’s smart as hell. We do kind of hate each other’s taste in television, but that’s okay.”

  Mr. Grant laughed and I took that as a good sign. I looked over at Maggie—she was still looking pretty nervous—but I thought I’d done okay. Mr. Grant turned to his daughter.

  “What about you? What do you see in him?”

  Maggie turned to me and looked me up and down.

  “Well, he’s brutally honest, isn’t he?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Maggie

  We sat down for dinner, squished to one side of the table due to my jigsaw puzzle. I tried a slow, silent count to ten to calm myself. Liam had prepared a salad and a pasta dish, which my parents appreciated, quite vocally, after their long drive and lack of home-cooked food. For dessert, he’d made a soufflé, a show-off move in my mind, but one that worked to impress my parents.

  It amazed me how all it took was a display of his culinary talents to win them over. My father showed a renewed interest as soon as he tasted the salad, and spent the meal asking him about cooking techniques for a porterhouse steak.

  “Why do you need to know that?” my mother interjected. “You can’t eat like that anymore. Liam, don’t answer him.”

  Liam flashed me a look and I shrugged my shoulders. My father was going to eat whatever the hell he wanted, regardless of the number of supplements she shoved down his throat. I had no interest in getting involved in that old argument.

  “So Mom, tell me, what kind of stuff have you seen?” I asked her, figuring I could at least provide a distraction.

  “Oh, Maggie, you should see the birds. Depending on where we are, they’re different, but the cardinals are my favourite.”

  She went on a twenty-minute ornithological tirade, most of which I blocked out as I tried to figure out what would happen after dinner. Things seemed to have gone okay so far. Maybe a little tense for a couple supposedly madly in love, but everyone had their days, right?

  After dinner, Liam suggested we head to the living room while he cleaned up. I protested, but he steered me out of the kitchen. He may have just wanted some time away from my crazy family, so I joined my parents on the couch as my dad flipped through the Netflix options.

  “Don’t you have regular TV?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, what if I want to watch Jeopardy!?”

  “So, watch Jeopardy! Any time you want.”

  His head whipped around to look at me.

  “You serious?” he asked.

  I nodded. He found the search screen and let out a laugh when he found Jeopardy! He settled into the couch and started his age-old yelling match with the TV. My mom turned to me.

  “So, sweetheart, is everything okay between you and Liam?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Of course. Why would you ask?”

  “Because I’m a woman, and I can tell when things are a little…off,” she said gently.

  Shit.

  “Well, you just happened to come the day after a big fight. I’m sure we’ll work everything out and it’ll be fine by morning.”

  “If you say so,” she paused. “Should your father and I put in earplugs tonight?”

  “MOTHER!”

  *

  After a few rounds of Jeopardy!, Liam came to join us in the living room. I thanked him profusely for doing the dishes, and he gave me weird look.

  “Why would you thank me now? To look good in front of your folks? I do this every night,” he said.

  I swallowed, realizing my error. I cast a glance at my parents, but they were both laughing at a contestant who’d forgotten to format her answer as a question.

  “Right,” I said, under my breath.

  He sat down on the armchair, leaving the couch to me and my parents. My mom, over my father’s loud protests, reached for the remote and lowered the volume.

  “That was a truly excellent dinner, Liam. Thank you. Can I ask what led you to become a chef?” she asked.

  Liam smiled, almost as if to himself at some private recollection.

  “I’ve always liked being in the kitchen, and I’ve always been good with my hands. It wasn’t until I was a little older and more experienced that I began to realize I also had a knack for creating flavours and textures that other people really enjoyed. My parents were not supportive. Haven’t spoken to them in over a decade. But I love the life. It’s rock and roll, non-stop.”

  I listened as he peeled away the layers and I got a glimpse of the real Liam, the man behind the self-confident womanizer with the big muscles and multiple tattoos.

  “That’s fascinating,” my mother said. “It does sound like a true calling. But like my husband earlier, I still can’t reckon how the two of you got together.”

  “Well,” he said. “Sometimes opposites attract, don’t they?”

  “Okay, enough already. Can we watch TV?” my father said.

  I sighed in relief, grateful for once for my father’s complete lack of social skills. He was the one person in the room who wanted this conversation to end more than I did. I could’ve hugged him.

  “What do you want to watch now, Dad?” I asked, willing to give him the moon.

  “Does this thing have Die Hard?”

  Liam reached over and grabbed the remote.

  “You bet your ass it does.”

  He found the film within twenty seconds and I went into the kitchen to make some popcorn. Apparently, there was still family time to be had.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Liam

  After the movie ended, the Grants disappeared into the guest room.

  “Finally. Either they’re exhausted or they’ve had enough of me for the day,” Maggie said.

  “Does it really matter which?”

  “No. It does not.” She paused. “Thanks. Again.”

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  She unfolded herself and got up from the couch, picking the empty mugs off the coffee table.

  “I’m going to head to bed. You can watch TV or whatever. Just, um, don’t worry about waking me when you come in. I go to sleep pretty late.”

  “So why don’t you stay and watch something with me?” I asked.

  “This is kind of my writing time,” she explained.

  “Okay. Good to know. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  I watched her disappear up the stairs and then picked up the remote and flipped on the TV. What a strange fucking day. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d met a girl’s parents. And here I’d spent an entire afternoon entertaining the Grants, and then cooking for them, all for a woman I barely knew.

  I flipped through the stand-up specials until I found something that appealed to me, then settled in to watch. But after about half an hour, I found myself growing tired. Not wanting to fall asleep on the couch and send the wrong signal to her parents come morning, I got up and headed upstairs to Maggie’s bedroom.

  I stood outside the door for a few seconds, wondering if I should knock or just go right in. What did people who lived together do? Did they just walk in? That would be kind of rude. What if it were me, and I was rubbing one out?

  I knocked gently.

  “Come in,” Maggie called.

  I opened the door and found her sitting cross-legged on the armchair, computer on her lap, typing away. She was wearing a white T-shirt and thin grey cotton shorts. Her hair was all tied up on the top of her head in a messy…something or other. But the thing that really got me was her glasses. She was wearing a pair of round, tortoise-shell frames that made her look sexy as hell. And much to my horror, for the first time since this entire charade began, my dick stood up and took notice of the situation.

  Suddenly, I was no longer doing a favour for my friend’s kid sister. I was in a bedroom, preparing to spend the night, with an incredibly hot woman. I grabbed some clothes and made a beeline for the bathroom.

  I walked in, closed the door, and turned on the cold water. I splashed my face and looked in the mirror. Get a fucking grip, man. What the h
ell had just happened? I got ready for bed, brushed my teeth, and walked back into the bedroom. She glanced up at me and smiled and once again, I felt that stirring in my shorts. I walked over to the laundry hamper to drop my clothes in, then leaned over to pull the mattress out from under the bed.

  “How’s the writing going?” I asked, trying to break the tension.

  “Um, okay,” she said. “I rewrote a bunch after our walk the other day. Want to take a look?”

  She uncrossed her legs and stood up, handing me the laptop. I took it from her and sat down on the edge of the bed. She paced as I read. It was clear from the revisions she’d made that she had been listening when I’d described the kiss, but it was also still clear she’d never experienced a proper one. I handed her back the laptop.

  “It’s getting there,” I said.

  She looked at me, frustration clouding her face.

  “But I wrote it just like you described. What’s wrong now?” she demanded.

  “You wrote it just like I described. You need to find your own words, your own description.”

  “Well how the fuck am I supposed to do that?” she asked.

  “Get yourself kissed.”

  “You’re supposed to be my boyfriend. Kiss me.”

  I laughed.

  “We’ve been over this already—”

  “Right. My brother. You don’t like me. You have a million different reasons. But I’m a grown woman and—newsflash—my brother’s not my keeper. And I’m sure you’ve kissed hundreds of women you didn’t like.”

  She was standing there, hands on her hips, looking incredibly pissed off. I set the laptop down on the bed and stood up.

  “And what’s so funny, anyway? You’ve had this stupid grin on your face since you walked in here. Like this whole situation is hysterical. Like it’s just beyond that I’d ask you—”

  I grabbed her head in my hands and kissed her. Partly just to shut her up, partly because of those damn glasses, but mostly because I’d suddenly noticed the way her mouth moved when she spoke, how her lips curled up at the corner.