He pulls out a bottle of white wine, pours a glass, and sets it on the counter. “You can help by sitting there and drinking,” he says with a smile.
I pull up a stool to the counter and obey. “Sounds good to me.”
He sautés the asparagus, deftly pouring in some olive oil and adding several different spices from a large rack. I rest my chin in my hand and unabashedly watch him. He’s somehow sexy even as he cooks. Maybe it’s the way he moves--so confidently, so assuredly, as if he’s made this recipe a thousand times and knows it by heart. Maybe it’s just the way his pants showcase his ass.
“So how did you get into this mail-order business, Jenna?” Matt asks after a minute.
I shake my head a little, emerging from the haze of my thirsty thoughts. “It actually wasn’t my idea,” I admit, swirling my wine in the glass. “Like I said, I’m the lead singer of a band. But my grandparents, who are basically my parents, wanted me to settle down.”
“How do they feel about that pink in your hair?” he asks.
I can’t help but laugh. “It’s not their favorite,” I say. “But I think it looks good.”
He casts me a glance over his shoulder, and from the way his blue eyes darken, I can tell he does, too. I look away, trying in vain not to blush again.
“My band has been touring on and off for the past few years,” I say, desperate to fill the sudden silence. “So I was shocked when my grandparents said they signed me up for this. I’m really only here because I have the next few months off. I’m expecting to go back on tour after the new year.”
I wonder if my honesty is too much--maybe he’s really invested in this mail-order business. But instead, Matt surprises me and says, “Yeah, this wasn’t really my idea, either. It was my mom who set me up. Actually, she set me and all five of my brothers up. She has this insane idea that we’re all going to buy Snow Valley together.”
I gape at him. “Five brothers?” I repeat, incredulous. Then, the rest of his statement dawns on me. “Wait, you’re going to buy Snow Valley? How do you buy a town?”
He gives a snort of laughter. “Apparently, it’s possible. That’s news to me as well,” he says. “The town is in financial trouble and needs a buyer, so my mom pushed for my brothers and I to pitch in together. But there’s an outdated ordinance saying the buyer has to be married, and since we’re all buying together…” He takes the asparagus out of the pan and sets to work on the salmon and potatoes. “Well. Here we are.”
“So she bought all of you mail-order brides?!”
“She did. She’s nothing if not determined.”
“When do you all have to be… married?” It’s a difficult word to croak out.
Matt sighs. “By Christmas.”
I feel my eyes widen. “That’s…”
“Crazy?” he finishes for me. “Yeah. You’re telling me.”
We lapse back into silence. A delicious aroma has filled the air, and I can’t help but breathe it in. Still, I feel a little unsettled. It’s bizarre to think that, if Matt and I truly hit it off, we’ll be married in just a few months. The circumstances that brought us together are even more peculiar. How are six brothers all possibly going to be married by Christmas?
This is just a little vacation, Jen, I remind myself. You’re going back on tour next year, remember?
Right.
Thankfully, we ease into some more small talk as Matt finishes up our dinner. I learn that he’s an attorney and owns his own practice. “I’m a bit of a workaholic,” he confesses. “But it’s what makes me the happiest, to know that I’m working hard and doing well.” When I press him for his hobbies, he says that he enjoys playing tennis, reading, and, lo and behold, listening to music.
Now this is a topic I can latch onto. “What kind of music?” I ask as he sets the table (he politely refused to let me help).
“All kinds,” he says. “Alternative, grunge, and R&B, for instance.”
I stare at him. “Are you kidding?”
“No, why?”
We sit down, facing each other across the beautiful spread he’s made. The salmon is perfectly cooked, complemented by the crispy potatoes and fresh, green asparagus. Everything looks especially good now that I’ve also consumed a glass and a half of wine.
“I don’t know,” I demur as I put some food on my plate, trying to resist the urge to fill it to the brim. I’m starving. “You just don’t strike me as an ‘alternative, grunge, R&B’ type.”
The grin Matt flashes at me is a little wicked. “What, you think I’m an ‘opera, piano, and smooth jazz’ type instead?”
I don’t say anything, choosing to take a giant bite of potatoes instead. That’s exactly what I was thinking.