I hit the doorbell. A loud chime rings, and moments later, footsteps echo from inside. The door swings open.
Jason fills the doorway, all good guy charm and welcoming blue eyes. With that grin and that dimple, you could put the All-American guy on a cereal box, and Cardboard Crunchies would sell out of groceries stores across the country. His gaze lands on the potato salad and beer in my hands. “Good choices. I’ll allow entry,” he says drily.
His humor relaxes me the slightest bit. “Good thing I didn’t come empty-handed,” I say.
I step inside, and he closes the door. “I would have let you in even if you had. No one else brought anything. The fuckers.”
Great. I listened to my friend and showed up with potato salad like it’s a freaking Tupperware party in 1967 Suburbia.
“Oh, really?” I hope it sounds casual, but I’m groaning inside.
Jason claps my back. “It’s all good, Cafferty. I should have told you earlier that I’d handle everything. But this is good beer. So you get a gold star.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I feel awkward. As I sometimes do.
I follow him as he heads into a state-of-the-art kitchen. He takes the salad and puts it in the fridge. As I set the beer on the kitchen island, I try not to gawk, but this kitchen is a palace. It’s all stainless steel and pristine appliances. The Sub-Zero fridge is a thing of beauty. The meals I could make here . . .
I pull myself back before I get lost in a cooking daydream. “Your fridge is to die for,” I blurt, then I want to kick myself.
Who the hell says that? You have a nice fridge? Why don’t I just tell him he has a lovely-sounding doorbell too?
As he shuts the door, he shoots me a smile. “Are you one of those kitchen people?”
Jason makes it sound like a secret club that believes aliens explored our prehistoric planet. When Kitchen People Walked The Earth. His exaggerated horror eases my “nice-fridge” embarrassment.
“Kitchen person in the house,” I declare, patting my chest, trying to muster some coolness, some chill. “I’m a card-carrying one.”
“Sweet. My brother is a kitchen person. I have zero skills in that arena, but I love good food,” he says.
I wave a hand around the room. “Why do you have all this kitchen bling then?”
He shrugs affably. I suspect he does everything affably. “Came with the place. What can you do?” The question is rhetorical, but he’s dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and his tone is just shy of sexy.
Which makes it all kinds of dangerous.
Jason points to the six-pack. “You want one of those wheat ales?”
“Sure,” I say, mostly because I need something to do with my hands.
With the smoothness I’d expect from an athlete, he snags a bottle opener from a drawer and pops off the tops of two beers. He hands me one, then tips his toward mine. “To destroying you tomorrow,” Jason says as we clink bottles.
This I can handle—football and the trash talk that comes with it.
I give him my best dirty glare. Channeling my in-the-huddle glower makes me feel like I can manage anything, including this mix of lust and admiration. The gridiron is the one spot where I feel completely comfortable, where I don’t overthink or worry. “To you eating your words,” I toss back.
“Damn, those are fighting words, Cafferty,” he says with an appreciative smirk. “But I bet they’ll taste as delicious as this beer when you have to congratulate me on my win.”
“I’m feeling a friendly wager coming on,” I say, and I fight like hell to rein in a smile. This is so much more enjoyable than the press scrum earlier.
“You like to gamble?” Jason asks, taking a drink of his beer.
“Well, not on my own games. Or any football games, for that matter.”
Jason chuckles. “Obviously.”
“But anything else . . .” I trail off then give an easygoing shrug for my answer. “I do.”
“Good to know.” It’s kind of a throwaway comment, but I want to pounce on it, ask what he means, why he said it.
Except, that’s not why I’m here.
Lively music and laughter drift in from the yard, along with the mouth-watering smell of grilled chicken. A get-together unfolds beyond this room, but Jason hardly seems like he’s missing it. For a few delirious seconds, I let my mind wander to the idea of just him and me, here on a date.
Then I stop that bullshit.
As tempting as hanging here in the kitchen with him is, I may not have a better opportunity to ask my question.
But a blur of black and white leaps onto the counter, skidding across the black island, then stopping short at a butcher block cutting board.
Holy shit.
The tuxedo kitten is here.
I point. “That’s Bandit!”
In case he doesn’t know.